Clique v Clique
by somethingcool
Summary: Stan reluctantly moves to South Park, where he finds himself in the middle of a high school battleground. Still, life in South Park has its perks... AU, Style.
1. Prologue

Prologue

There are several things I'd like to have been told before I moved to South Park. The brochure could have done with a disclaimer. Something along the lines of: "The inhabitants of this town have no understanding of logic, how the outside world works, or the concept of rational behaviour". Or at least a more honest description of the weather. I've got so many pairs of shorts I'll never get to wear again.

I'd also like to have known it would make me feel better and worse than I'd ever felt in my life – sometimes at the same time.

Most of all, a section on how its inhabitants chose to settle disputes over relationship issues with baseball bats stolen from the gym closets would have been helpful. Really fucking helpful. My bat-holding hand is shaking from how tightly its clenched around the handle. Also from the cold. South Park is really fucking cold. I want to wear my gloves, but that would weaken my grip. Then that bastard Craig would knock my bat out of my grasp. Before it'd have hit the snow, he'd be smashing my brains in with his bat. Once comatose, he'd proceed to beat me to a bloody pulp. Fuck the feeling in my hands, I want to keep my brains.

On the plus side, I'm not alone. Cartman, Kenny and Butters are all in this with me. Cartman's holding two bats, supposedly so he can do double the damage. In actuality, his grip on both bats will be weaker and he'll go down in minutes. He's belting out some crap about how we must be strong and Craig's team will be defeated. He's drawn up an impromptu battle strategy on the blackboard. His plan is for us to charge and hit them all in the balls with our bats.

Kenny's paying even less attention to Cartman than I am. His bat is dangling loosely from his hand and he keeps gazing out of the window to where history will be written. I tried talking to him, but all he said was, "I can deal with surprises. It tends to be over too fast for me to realise. Waiting and knowing? That's the real fucker." Yeah, I didn't get it either. It's not like him to talk like that.

Butters is sat rigidly in front of Cartman. I can see him trembling at a distance. He's not even picked up his bat yet; he's too busy wringing his hands and repeating everything Cartman says under his breath.

The Cheesy Poofs jingle is emitted from Cartman's phone. He picks it up and nods at us. It's time. We march down the stairs, each trying to hide our fear – except Kenny. He's vacant now. He won't say a word to anyone.

I open the school doors. A gust of wind freezes my legs and sends a shiver up my spine. Maybe that time spent panicking would have been better spent getting out of this cheerleading uniform. A skirt isn't the best thing to wear into battle.

Oh, right. Yeah, we're all in cheerleading uniforms. Me, Kenny, Butters and Cartman, that is. The other team still have their dignity. We're dressed in matching tiny, tight little tank tops and short pleated skirts, the school logo emblazoned on our chests. At least we all thought to put our jackets on before starting the fight, but now we look like girls dressed in their boyfriends' oversized jackets.

We march onto the snow covered football pitch. Wendy, as class president, is officiating. She's sitting on the bleachers, along with just about everyone I've met at this school, her arms crossed over her chest. I guess it's her way of letting everyone know she's only doing this because if she let it happen without her, it could get even worse. She gives us only the curtest of nods to let us know she's acknowledged our presence.

"Any chance of you dumb douchebags withdrawing?"

"And give Craig the satisfaction of thinking he beat us? Not a fucking chance," Cartman says, but his voice is high and faint.

"Where are they?" Butters asks, looking around. As if four guys with baseball bats are easy to miss. "Maybe they're going to pull out!"

The crowd roars with excitement. Out from the locker rooms come our opponents. They've all got lines of eye black smeared on their cheeks. Craig is swinging his bat ferociously back and forth, staring right at me. Token and Clyde are attempting to look nonchalant, but I can see they're eyeing our bats with fear. I can't look at Kyle right now, even though this is all because of him. Yeah, the cheerleading outfits included.

"I'm going to break your legs, Marsh!" Craig yells, swinging his bat at knee height.

"Not before I beat your ass down and take a crap in your mouth!" someone hollers back. Oh, shit, that was me. Where did that bravado come from? I really don't want to enrage Craig further right now.

"You tell them, Stan!" Cartman shouts. He claps his two bats together. "Get ready to die, pussies!"

"I'm going to shoot my load into your eye sockets," Kenny drawls, gently swinging his bat. He's not even bothering to look at the other team.

"I'm going to smack you real hard with this!" Butters cries, waving his bat over his head. "You hear? This is going to be a spanking to remember, misters!" The crowd barks with laughter. "Unless, gee, you've all realised what a bad idea this was." The laughing doubles. Craig glares at his team mates.

"I'm going to fuck you up so bad your own mothers won't recognise you!" Token shouts, whilst Clyde starts crying. Kyle worms his way into my line of sight by putting an arm around Clyde's shoulders and flipping off the jeering crowd.

I remember when Kyle put his arm around my shoulders. I never realised what an arm-to-shoulder whore he was.

Fuck, he looks so good right now. The black eye smeared awkwardly on his face just highlights his amazing cheekbones. He's not bothered to put a jacket on over his basketball shirt – the game only finished about half an hour ago, he's probably still roasting from that – and all I can think of is how well defined and strong his arms look, despite how slight they are. That, and the fact that he's stabbing me in the back right now.

I'd like to know how he thinks he's going to get better in Farmville without me.

Wendy stomps onto the pitch, standing between the two teams. I smile at her – no harm in getting the referee on your side, right? - but she just shoots me down with a glare. Like me, she's dressed in a cheerleading uniform and jacket. She's probably cold as well as pissed, but she doesn't show it. She never shows weakness in public, though.

"I can see both teams are here," she begins, her voice a bored monotone. "I can also see both teams are armed, suggesting that both teams are full of fucking idiotic cockwipes and intend to fight. I don't suppose any of you have located a brain cell and concluded this is a bad idea?"

"Just get on with it so I can make Marsh smoothie," Craig snaps.

"Hey, asshole! What about me?" Cartman demands. Craig rolls his eyes.

"Sure, I'll beat you too. Turdnugget."

"I am the leader of this gang and your animosity should be focused on me!"

"Are you? Still?" Token asks. His gaze lingers meaningfully on me, long enough for even Cartman to pick up what he means. Cartman spins around and advances on me. Kenny holds out an arm, stopping his tracks.

"Token's just trying to get you mad," he says in that same empty voice. I'm seriously worried about him, but not as worried as I am about myself. "You know, so you'll turn on Stan and the team will go down easy."

"Token, you choadecheese!" Cartman yells. "I am going to bite your balls off and spit them in your face!"

"I will take that as assent from both sides for the fight to occur," Wendy says. "You assholes. I guess I'd better go into the rules – which, incidentally, ban you from doing everything you've been threatening each other with.

"Once a guy is down on the ground, he's out. You can't hit him any more and he can't attack you. You can attack only with the bat and the following areas are off-limits: the head, the neck, the groin. The winning team is that which has players left alive. If you all miraculously survive, when all members of one team are disqualified, the other team wins. The referee, i.e. myself, will appoint three other neutral onlookers to keep an eye out for trouble." Wendy turns and points out three of her friends. "Bebe, Red, Jimmy, you're my official onlookers." She turns back to us.

"I believe that's everything. Any questions?" Butters raises a quivering hand. "Yes, Butters?"

"What if someone were to just run away?"

"Butters, you will stay and fight like a man, you asshole!"

"But my parents will ground me if I get killed!"

"Isn't attacking with the bat counter-intuitive to the goal of knocking someone down?" I ask. The crowd boos as one. Some people stand and stamp their feet. I kind of hope that the bleachers break on them. It wouldn't surprise me with the general standards of workmanship in this town. "I mean, it'd be easier and less dangerous to use hands and feet only."

"You could always withdraw," Kyle says. He's still got his arm around the sobbing Clyde, so I ignore him.

"Yeah, or we could go fight some place else," Craig offers. "Either way, it's going to end with me skullfucking your skull."

"Craig! That's against the rules!" Wendy cries, balling her fists in frustration. "Not to mention tautological!"

How the fuck did I get into this?


	2. Chapter 1

I don't know if you know, but moving house sucks ass. First you've got to – no, that's not right. There's no 'first'. There's no order to the process, or no order to what I've seen of it. Everything's a mad scramble – packing, hiring a van to take the stuff someplace new, saying goodbye to old friends, googling the hell out of the new place, angsting about how everyone in the new town will hate you – it's a lot for a guy to handle, and that's just before you get to your new home. It's especially rough when he's treated as the lackey of the house and is expected to obey every tiny (or not so tiny) demand that's thrown in your direction. It's kind of stressful.

It's extra-specially stressful when you're a gay teenager and you're moving to a tiny rural town. I don't want to be prejudiced or anything but stereotypes do decree that the odds of my being pulverised are higher in that sort of place. Since being pulverised isn't a kink of mine, I'm kind of worried about the issue. Mom's all, "Stanley, don't be so negative." As if I'm making a big deal about nothing. Sorry, Mom, I'm just worried about being maimed, but I'll leave you to your Sudoku.

We're driving to the new house now. Mom and Dad have visited, but Shelly and I haven't. I've seen photos and it looks fine. Like a house, really. I have no quarrels with the house, except that my dumb sister has already secured the bigger room.

My stomach aches and churns like it does before a big test I know I'm going to fail. My iPod is injecting music into me as a distraction but no amount of awesome songs can distract me from the worries ricocheting in my head. If everyone detests me and decides the walls need to be painted a beautiful shade of Stan's blood, there's no way to escape. If the new school sucks and my grades suffer (which will be quite likely if the inhabitants are chasing me with knives and waiting buckets), then my chances of getting into a good college will drop to nil. If my room is haunted by the ghost of a serial killer who's back from the dead for vengeance against innocent kids, then I'll be stabbed in my sleep. Can ghosts stab?

Everyone from back home has promised they'll keep in touch. Aside from writing on my generally ignored facebook on my birthday, I doubt anything will come from that. Not that I wasn't liked there – I always seemed to be surrounded by people and my social calendar would burst with engagements if I had one – but they weren't lasting friendships. There was no one who I'd travel cross-state to meet up with again. Though I had a lot of friends, I'd end up rotating who I hung out with most a lot, meeting new people and spending more time with them instead – not maliciously, it just worked out that way. I guess the guys on the football team were constants in my life, but I never felt I really fit in. I've never really fitted in, now I think about it. I've cycled through friends since kindergarten.

Dad and Shelly's snoring is grating on my already irritated nerves, but not as much as Mom's fix of turning up the radio. It means that in turn, I've got to turn up my music to block out her warbling crap. When your head's already hurting from all the thinking and you've not been able to sleep for a second on a cross-country trip because of the thinking and random crap that's been stowed in the car is poking your legs, torso, arms and neck, another thing really adds up. You have no idea what I'd give just to be able to stretch out – except I suspect when I'm released from the car, it'll be via a graceless stumble. My legs have gone completely numb.

The road signs announce that we're entering South Park, Colorado and my stomach clenches. Peering out at my new surroundings only confirms my worst suspicions. Goddammit, there should not be snow like that at this time of the year in this part of the globe. How weird can you get?

Mom pulls the car into a drive – correction, our drive – and wakes up Dad. I don't wake Shelly, since I don't have a death wish. They get out and unlock the door. I check my surroundings first – sure, it's at an hour when everyone should be fast asleep, but it pays to be cautious – and then stumble out. I'm welcomed by a face full of snow. Pulling myself up, I ignore Dad's guffaws and grab a sleeping bag. No way am I making my bed at this hour.

Shelly's woken by the racket and she's grumpily making her way into the house. I give her a wide berth and slink upstairs to try and locate my room. As Murphy's Law decrees, it's the last door I try. The only thing I bring myself to notice about the room is that there's a bed. I throw my sleeping bag on it and try to get to sleep.

After what feels like five seconds, there's a loud banging on the door. It's time to unpack.

* * *

><p>After Mom says I'm free to get away from the packing for a few hours, I'm elated. When she reveals the reason for my release – a chubby – no, a pudgy – no, no, a rotund boy of what looks like my age - my spirits drop once again. He's wide-eyed, hair neatly combed and slicked back, wearing a shirt and tie on a weekend. The kid has to be a freak. He's introduced to me as Eric and from his simpering tone, I can tell that my first instinct was absolutely right. Nevertheless, I accompany to his house as instructed.<p>

"You're a quiet little pussy, aren't you?" he demands of me once we're out on the sidewalk, his voice way harsher and lower than before. "God, this was such a fucking waste of time."

"The fuck?" I counter, frowning at him. "What happened to, 'Oh, Mrs Marsh, I'm so excited to welcome you and your son to our lovely neighbourhood'?"

"That was just to get you out of there. Like I said, might have been a waste of my precious free time." He leads me to a house and kicks the door open. It's not the first time the door has been treated like that, given the dried muddy prints in one corner. "Mom! I'm home!"

"Glad to hear it, sweetie!" Eric's mom appears at the top of the stairs. Her dress would be conservative if it weren't hanging off one shoulder, obviously not fastened at the back. Her lipstick is smudged and I wonder how quickly I can get out of here. "Your little friends are in the living room. I gave them some triple chocolate doughnut brownies to snack on."

"But Moooooom, those are my triple chocolate doughnut brownies!" Eric screeches. His mom just laughs and seems to notice me for the first time. I give an awkward little half wave, barely lifting my arm at all. "Who's your new friend, sweetie?"

"He's not my friend, he's the new kid and he sucks so far." I hear a whoop, then the familiar clatter of controllers being thrown down unceremoniously. Two new faces appear in the door frame to my left, which Eric's mom takes as a cue to glide away back to whatever she was doing.

"Now Eric, you gotta be nice to the new kid," says one. His hair is light and fluffy, like a lamb's fleece. He's smiling, but fidgeting at the same time. "It's gotta be hard, moving here and not knowing anybody."

"Aw, fuck," says the other. He's skinny, with messy blond hair that almost hides his deep brown eyes, which are currently flicking up and down over me, and languishing in a dramatic 'I don't give a fuck' kind of way. "New kid, can you go back to where it is you came from? I don't need any more competition for the girls."

"You're a fucking slut, Kenny," Eric says, interrupting my inner turmoil about revealing my orientation. "And don't tell me what to fucking do, Butters."

"I guess I don't need to be introduced any more," I think aloud. Kenny grins at me.

"But we don't know your name. I guess we can just call you 'New Kid', but-"

"It's Stan."

"Nice to meet you, Stan!" Butters enthuses, coming forward to shake my hand. I've never had my hand shaken before, but I'm pretty sure it's not meant to be that vigorous. "My name's Leopold, but everyone just calls me Butters."

"Why?"

"'Cause my last name is Stotch! Butters...Stotch! Like butterscotch!" He giggles. I give a fraction of a nod and try to smile.

Eric barges past the other two into the living room. Inside, I find the conflicting image of a wall full of next-gen consoles opposite a stained, lumpy sofa, its pattern faded. Eric needn't have worried about the fabled triple chocolate doughnut brownies, which are piled high on a garish plate on the floor – there seems to be enough there to satisfy a church picnic. He picks up the plate and throws himself lengthwise onto the sofa, blocking anyone else from sitting there.

"So what were you fags up to?" he asks. I have visions of walls dripping with blood, type Stan.

"Just playing the latest Street Fighter," Kenny answers, sitting on the floor, legs akimbo.

"Yeah, except Kyle-" Butters begins.

"That asshole was here?" Eric demands, launching himself into an upright position with a groan.

"No, dumbass, we played online."

"Goddammit, I will not have people consorting with Jews in my house!"

"Dude, that's not cool!" I interject. "That's anti-Semitic." Kenny inhales sharply.

"Fuck you, new kid. See, I told you guys he sucked."

"You suck balls, Cartman," Kenny says. He chucks a controller at him. "Now let's see how bad you suck at this game."

"It is on, poor-ass!" They mash buttons frantically as Butters sits beside me, way too daintily for a guy.

"How're you finding South Park, Stan?"

"All I've seen is this house, my house and the street between them, so...yeah. But that's all been fine, I guess."

"Well, gosh darn it! I should give you a tour. Would you like that, Stan?" I really could do with finding my feet here – especially if I'm to avoid the rough areas where I might get jumped on for breathing the wrong way – but it's a struggle to keep my eyelids prised apart right now.

"Sure. But maybe tomorrow? It's been a rough trip." Butters nods understandingly.

"I understand, Stan. Just give me a call when you feel like it!"

"I think I'd need your number to do that."

"Oh, yeah!" He giggles again and whips out his phone with a tinkling noise – caused, I soon see, by a Hello Kitty charm with a bell on it. "Here's my number. Type yours in when you're done! Oh, but you'll probably want Kenny and Eric's, too, huh?"

"Who says he can have my number?" Eric demands, his eyes still fixed on the television.

"Who said I wanted it?"

"Butters," Kenny says. "You can grab my number off him, anyway."

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't want Eric's," I reply, finding Kenny in Butters' contact list.

"Everyone wants my number. My number is awesome," Cartman huffs.

"I'm pretty sure your number is just some random string of numbers and not awesome."

"No, no, it's awesome! And you can only have it if you beat me at this game!" I examine the scores onscreen for the first time. Straight away, I can tell that this'll be a cinch. I take the proffered controller from Kenny and deliberate at the character menu. I want to impress these guys and the way to do that is complete humiliation. I pick the crappiest character, eliciting a snort of derision from Eric and a nervous glance from Kenny.

"Boy, he's my favourite, too!" Butters chirps.

"Stan, have you played this before?" Kenny asks, but Eric's already hit the continue button with glee.

"Yeah, I've played a little," I say offhandedly. I let Eric get a couple of cheap shots in, then I slam the buttons down into a lengthy combo sequence. Eric's character is blown off the ground, into the air – and I zip underneath him and blast out an upwards combo, hitting him before he can even get down to do anything else.

"Ay! That's cheating!"

"How the fuck is being better than you cheating?" I ask, slamming him back down with a well-executed finishing move. Kenny and Butters laugh, and Kenny holds his hand up for a high-five. I slap my hand against his and prepare to beat Eric again. This would be easier if he hadn't switched the 360 off.

"Screw you assholes, I'm going to my room." And he throws down the controller and leaves the room, taking the pile of chocolate monstrosities with him. My mouth's hanging open but Kenny just switches the machine back on and Butters flicks through an old TV guide.

"He does that sometimes," Kenny explains, noticing my confusion.

"Does this mean I won his phone number or not?" Kenny shrugs.

"Aw, phooey. The Sound of Music was on TV last week and I missed it," Butters says with genuine regret.

* * *

><p>"This is Stark's Pond," says Butters, gesturing at the frozen lake. "It's a nice quiet place to sit and think and it's a sweet place to bring a girl on a date."<p>

"It's not my kind of place to bring a girl," Kenny says, a dreamy look on his face. "Not by a landslide. Bet it won't be Stan's, either."

"It won't be," I say, without thinking. My cheeks would flush if they weren't already red from the cold. The weather here is seriously not right. A guy should not have to bundle up to face the Arctic just to take a quick tour of his new hometown. I did and I still worry that I'm going to catch frostbite.

"I think that's everywhere," Butters says, referring to his notepad. He actually wrote a checklist of places I had to see. It baffles me that a sweet dork like him is a close friend of Eric, who decided not to come out with us today because we all "suck hairy donkey balls" and something good was on TV. "What should we do now?"

I shrug, but Kenny rubs his hands together with glee.

"Hooters!"

"Or we could take Stan around to meet some of the guys from school," Butters suggests. "Stan, which would you prefer?" Given that the food at Hooters is terrible and I have no interest in their main selling point, I opt to meet some of the other guys.

"Whose house should we go to?" Butters asks Kenny. Kenny whips his battered old phone out.

"Hey, dude," he says to the machine. "Is the asshole at yours? Don't give me that crap, you know who I mean. No? Cool." He laughs. "Like fuck you're grounded. That doesn't even make sense- Oh, Craig, huh? Sure, we'll try, but if your mom strikes us all dead I want you to at least come to my funeral." He pockets the phone. "Let's try to bother Kyle." He and Butters turn and start heading off in what I take to be the direction of Kyle's house. I jog to catch up with them, uncomfortably aware of how my feet slide a little with each snowy step.

"What's he grounded for?" Butters asks

"Something to do with that asswipe Craig. I didn't ask for details."

"What's wrong with Craig?" I ask.

"He's kind of a douche. He hates Kyle hanging out with us."

"Why?"

"Beats me."

"But Kyle used to hang out with us all the time, until he and Cartman had a big fight."

"Had yet another fucking big fight," Kenny corrects him. They stop outside a house. Kenny nudges Butters and nods at the door. "You knock, his mom likes you more."

"Aw, gee, but you said he was grounded," Butters whimpers, his foot pawing at the ground. "His mom might be real sore that we've come around."

"And she'll be less pissy with you than with me. Go on, knock."

Butters does so. The door is opened by a formidable, portly woman with a beehive of bright red hair. She's smartly dressed for a Sunday afternoon and her expression is a grim as her attire.

"I'm sorry, boys, but Kyle's grounded and can't play today," she announces, looking sternly at Kenny and Butters. Butters gazes sheepishly at the floor and mutters something like, "Sorry, ma'am."

"Sorry, Mrs B.," Kenny apologises. "We were just hoping to introduce Stan to Kyle, since he's new here and doesn't know many people yet."

For the first time, Mrs B. looks at me. She claps her hands and opens the door wide. I have no idea what to say to such a response or what could have caused it and dumbly make a little grunt of – fuck, even I don't know what it was meant to be.

"Oh, well! Why didn't you say so? Stan, I've heard so much about you!" She waves us all inside and shuts the door behind us. We're all cramped onto a single welcome mat and it is hard to scrape your shoes on the same tiny rectangle as two other teenage boys. Still, there's absolutely no way I'm getting off it until I am certain that every last drop of snow and mud is gone from my boots. Everything in this house is pristine and I'm terrified of breaking something lest I be presented with a bill I'd need a loan to repay. "I visited your mother yesterday with a welcome basket. I heard you were a star quarterback _and_ an excellent student."

"I wouldn't say excellent," I mumble.

"Gee, Stan, you never said you were so great!"

"Kyle!" Mrs B. calls up the stairs. "Kyle, come down, bubbé! Your friends are here!"

A door slams shut and a guy comes hurtling down the stairs. He's much shorter than I expected, with messy black hair. He looks kind of young, too. Is this Kyle some sort of kid genius who got put forward several years in school?

"Hey, Kyle's less douchey friends," he greets us, before dashing away.

"Ike!" Mrs B. snaps. "Watch your language! And where is Kyle?"

"Finishing up on the phone with someone. Probably Craig," Ike calls from somewhere else. Mrs B. purses her lips and heads up the stairs, each step a thump like thunder.

"I'm guessing she doesn't like Craig?"

"She really doesn't," Butters says. "Says he's a bad influence on her good little boy."

I hear yelling, then Mrs B. descends the stairs once more. Seconds later, my heart stops and I don't care. Please let this be Kyle. He's got long auburn hair in a halo of tight curls that I want to lose my hands in, vivid blue heavy lidded eyes and a vaguely elfin face offset by a strong jawline, perfect for peppering kisses over. He hops nimbly down the stairs and bounds over, grinning at me. At us, rather, if I were to come out of my daydream, but I'd really rather not. I push past Kenny and Butters and hold my fist out. His eyes widen and maybe I'm imagining it, but so does his smile. This guy could get his college fund set doing toothpaste commercials.

"I'm Stan."

"Kyle," he says, bumping his fist against mine. I never realised how lyrical the name Kyle was before now. He puts an arm around my shoulders and guides me up the stairs. I hear Kenny and Butters following suit, but I can't take my eyes off Kyle. My mouth has turned dry and all I'm capable of doing is smiling. It's lucky that Kyle's so nice, smiling back at me like that.

His room is a treasure trove of awesome and a testament to his outstanding taste. He's got the poster for the first Terrence and Philip movie, along with posters for various great games. I've got to get his gamertag so we can play together online. He's got shelves and shelves which are sagging with films, books and games. Some of the books are pretty heavy – no one I've ever met before has had had a well thumbed copy of the works of Decartes - but there's also a lot of lighter stuff by some of my favourite authors. I immediately home in on the collection of Chinpokomon plushies on his bed.

"Dude, you've got Feumerde!" Kyle sits beside me on the bed whilst Kenny raises his eyes to the ceiling.

"Yeah, he's definitely my favourite from the new games."

"He's awesome. I ploughed through the Elite Four with him on my team."

"What did you think to Trashomon?" I wrinkle my nose.

"Given that this game is a reflection on what Japan thinks of the US, I guess we need to clean up our world image if they think our monsters would be living garbage bags." He groans and I realise my error in horror. "Oh, shit, I did not intend that terrible pun."

"I haven't a fucking clue what you two are talking about," Kenny announces, lounging in Kyle's desk chair. "But I know it's geeky as hell."

"Alert the fucking press," Kyle replies, making a complicated but definitely obscene gesture at Kenny. "I'm sure no one's picked up on my massive geekitude before now."

"And Stan's was pretty much out of the bag when he whooped Eric at Street Fighter yesterday," Butters says, giggling. "Man, you should have seen him, Kyle, he could maybe even beat you-"

"So you're not just a hardcore Nintendo fanboy?" Kyle asks me, grinning. "A lot of Chinpokomon fans are."

"Hell no. Like I even own a fucking gimmicky Wii. I didn't even fall for the Dreamcast."

"There were some good games on it!" he protests. "On both, even."

"I'll grant that-"

"Kyle," Butters says, severely, interrupting me. "Shouldn't you be asking Stan about where he's from and suchlike?"

"Oh, yeah, right. I hardly know you," he says, laughing. "Mom said where you were from, but I thought you sounded like some boring stereotypical jock so I didn't remember it."

"I'm totally a stereotypical jock. I'm as dumb as a protozoa, I'm acing all my classes 'cause coach makes teachers go easy on me, and I split my free time between banging my hot cheerleader girlfriends, practising sports, beating up nerds and polishing my trophies." Kyle laughs and leans back on his bed.

"Yeah, that's pretty much what I figured. Guess you'd better start using me as your personal punch bag."

"Kyle's gonna be class valedictorian," Butters informs me. He's taken a couple of Kyle's action figures down (Spike Spiegel and Scarecrow, if you're wondering) and is playing with them happily on the floor. Kyle shrugs.

"Mom wants me to be, but there's some tough competition." He rolls over onto his stomach and looks up at me, head propped up in his hands. "But I want to hear about you, Mr Fake Jock."

"Jock-lite, really. I've been quarterback on various teams as long as I can remember."

"Which won't be that long, since you've probably taken so many blows to the head."

"Exactly. What was the question, again?" I run a hand through my hair. "I seriously don't know what to tell you."

"Where are you from?"

"Portland. It's a huge climate change for me. Don't you guys realise how cold it is here?" They all shake their heads at me. "We only have a few days of snow a year there. Anyway, my dad got offered a great job here, so we uprooted."

"What do you think to South Park?"

"Aside from fucking freezing? Tiny. Quiet."

"Favourite game?"

"Rock Band Three, Ocarina of Time and Psychonauts. Don't make me pick."

"You've played Psychonauts? Fuck, you're the first person I've met who even knows what the hell it is."

"Beaten Meat Circus." I shudder. "Eventually."

"That's nothing." Kyle smiles smugly. "I've unlocked the end video you can only get if you've hundred per-cented it."

"Yeah, well, that's..." I struggle to find the words. "...awesome."

"I know."

"Kyle, how come you're grounded?" Kenny asks, finally edging his way into the conversation. He's eyeing the other action figures, still on the shelves. The smile slips off Kyle's face and his eyes dart away from me.

"Craig," he mumbles.

"Yeah, I got that part. But what'd you and Craig do?"

"He flipped her off," Kyle mutters, his gaze fixed on the floor.

"How's that your fault?" I ask.

"Ugh, I 'looked like I was enjoying it'," Kyle says, his voice normal.

"What?" asks Kenny.

"I mean...she thought I thought it was funny. So I got grounded. Yeah." His voice is fast now. Butters is still playing with the figures obliviously and Kenny's nodding with understanding.

"That's pretty extreme."

"You haven't seen his mom mad," Kenny explains. "She can be a total bitch when she's angry about something. All logic and shit take a holiday to Mars-"

The door swings open. I breathe in sharply. Luckily, it's not Kyle's mom, having overheard Kenny's abuse of her character, but her other son. He sniggers at my, Kenny's and Kyle's agape mouths (Butters is still playing with the figures) and waggles a finger at us.

"Maybe you guys should be more careful about what you say and where you say it."

"Did you try to give us cardiac arrests just to prove that point, or do you have another reason for barging in?" Kyle snaps. He finally releases the bed covers which he'd seized when the door first burst open. I guess he must be really scared of his mom.

"That was just fortunate happenstance. Mom says your friends have to go now since you're supposed to be being punished."

"Right now?"

"Yep."

Kyle seizes a notepad from his inordinately tidy desk and a pen from a pot which, contrary to all logic, doesn't contain anything but writing implements. I realise after a moment that his desk must be kept that way because he actually works at it, unlike me and every other teenager in the world in possession of a desk. He shoves a piece of paper in my hand.

"That's my email address, full name, gaming usernames, mobile number and home number. I expect you to add me on everything. Do you play Farmville?" I laugh and his face falls.

"What, you do?"

"Yeah. I guess if you don't want to play with me-"

"No, no!" I protest. "I totally want to play with you! I just...I've never tried it." Mostly because I try not to touch Facebook more than twice a year. There's too much fucking drama surrounding it and I don't want to get entangled in any of that crap. What's the point in reading updates about how John's gone to get a coffee or seeing photos of what happened last night?

Photos. Facebook has photos.

I need to get home and add Kyle.


	3. Chapter 2

I'm late for my first day at my new school. It wouldn't have happened if I'd been allowed to take the school bus, but Mom was utterly insistent that she drive me for some reason even she didn't seem fully aware of. At least, every time I asked, all I got was a "Not now, Stanley!". She's been doing that a lot since I moved here. Anyway, she got lost on the way to school. The result? I'm due to get yelled at on my first day.

In any case, I'm dragging my sleepy ass up the steps to the school. I didn't go to sleep until after two in the morning. It was a really dumb and awesome thing to do. Kyle added me on Facebook (only thirteen minutes after I sent the request!) and I spent a lot of time looking through his profile, his photos and trying to learn as much as I could about him. We have loads in common, but I knew that already. What I really wanted to know was what was conspicuously absent from his profile: relationship status and sexual orientation. They were also the only things I couldn't ask anyone else without raising suspicion, though I can picture it pretty easily. It ends with them beating me down (except Butters) for being gay.

I know he's probably straight. Statistically, that's a pretty safe conclusion. I keep trying to remind myself of that, but then I remember something about him – his smile, his eyes, the way his jeans hugged close to his ass – and I'm back to daydreaming.

He also invited me to Farmville, only a minute after accepting my friend request. I've been clean from Facebook games for years now and everyone back home knew how much I publicly detest them. My cursor trembled over the 'okay' button. I clicked it.

The game is pretty terrible. No surprises there. Within seconds of starting it had invited me to spam everyone unfortunate enough to be on my friend, told me to be grateful to some major corporation for kindly donating some pixels to me and urged me to surrender my email address to the game's probably nefarious purposes. Normally I'd turn to that internet saviour, the x button, for rescue. This time I steeled myself and continued. It was dull and uninvolving. Somehow, someone somewhere had mixed the unfortunate bedmates of the internet, farming and watching paint dry and hooked people on it like e-crack. I don't get it. If it wasn't for the fact that Kyle had written on my farm's sign ("Awesome, you started playing! :)") it'd have easily been the worst gaming experience of my life.

I'm inside the school now. It's pretty similar to my last except of course all the posters are different, giving me a feeling of being at home but not, slightly jarring. Uncanny. I make my way to the reception, which is actually in the opposite direction to where I think it should be. I'm acknowledged by a surly secretary, who passes me a timetable and goes back to reddit. I mention that I don't know where any of these places are. He shrugs.

I stare at the timetable, with the unfamiliar codes scrawled all over it, and at the classroom doors and their numbers. There doesn't seem to be much, if any, correlation between them. There's only one solution – to knock on every classroom until I get to the right one or hope someone takes pity on me and directs me to the right place.

"There he is. Hey, new kid!" I turn at the sound of Eric's distinctive voice. I try to suppress a grin at seeing who he's accompanied by.

"He has a name, fatass," Kyle snaps at him, then smiles at me. It's physically impossible to hide my grin now; my facial muscles just can't do it. "Hi, Stan. Mr Garrison sent us to find you after you didn't turn up."

"Mr Garrison?" I walk between them, the two of them guiding me.

"Our homeroom and Math teacher. And teacher throughout most of elementary and middle school."

"...really?"

"Yeah, he's stalking us," Eric says. "Especially me. He's just trying to get at my hot body." I laugh, thinking he's joking, and he punches me. Kyle darts forward and punches him in the stomach.

"The fuck was that for?" Eric demands. He throws a punch at Kyle but I catch his arm.

"You punched Stan!"

"He laughed at me!"

"I thought you were joking!"

"Which is a reasonable assumption!" Eric drops his arm and scowls at us.

"Ugh. Why'd I even come to find the loser new kid?"

"Because you wanted to get out of class," Kyle reminds him.

"Why'd I let you come along?"

"Garrison didn't trust you to go alone."

"Why're you such a fucking know it all nerd, Kyle?"

"Everyone's a know it all compared to your meagre intellect, dumbass."

"Why did you want to come, anyway?" Eric demands, jumping off his doomed line of argument.

"I like Stan." Again, a revealing grin tries to creep up my face.

"You've only just met him!"

"We met yesterday," I say, finally edging into the conversation. "When you didn't want to hang out."

"Goddammit, new kid, you do not want to associate with Kyle! He's a fucking Jew rat!"

"At least he remembers my name!" I catch Kyle smirking out of the corner of my eye.

"I remember your name! I just don't know if you deserve it yet!"

"How can I not deserve my name? It's mine!"

"Because you're the new kid," Eric says, with a touch of finality. Kyle shrugs and starts pulling me away, his hand – soft, with its long, slender fingers – wrapped around my wrist. I don't fight, letting myself be guided along. Eric shouts something, but I don't hear what it is. Kyle drops my wrist all too soon and opens a classroom door. Twenty-something faces are craning to look at the doorway. At me. Kyle enters before me, briefly shielding me from their inquisitive looks.

"Mr Garrison, we found Stan," he says. Mr Garrison doesn't leave his desk, but glances up and down at me. Kyle leaves for his own seat, but smiles encouragingly at me as he sits.

"Well, class, looks like we got ourselves a new kid. An interloper."

"See!" Eric says, triumphantly, as he finally comes through the door. "He's the new kid and should be treated appropriately!"

"Get your dumb ass down, Eric," Mr Garrison says, waving Eric to his seat. "Now, Stan, why don't you tell us about yourself?"

I fucking hate this question. We're all multifaceted people with tastes and feelings that can evolve by the second; how the hell can I sum my entire being up in a couple of minutes? Especially when what feels like of hundreds of eyes are boring into me, judging every nuance of everything I do? I keep my gaze firm, looking straight forward but above the class.

"I'm Stan Marsh. I'm from Portland and I'm still trying to figure out how you're not all dying of frostbite. I like video games, football and stopping animals going extinct, but not in a weird PETA kind of way."

"Hippie!" Eric shrieks, leaping to his feet and pointing accusingly. "We've got a hippie infestation!"

"I'm not a hippie!"

"Whatever, hippie, I'm surprised you're not too high to talk!" Kenny perks up at that and gives me a thumbs up packaged with a cheeky grin.

"Stop accusing people of being hippies, Eric," Mr Garrison sighs. "Now, what would a totally awesome teacher do next?" He pulls out a notebook, its pages segregated by brightly coloured rectangles, and flicks through. He leaps to his feet. "Seat!" he yells. He grabs my shoulders and turns me so I scan the entire classroom. I have no idea what's going on any more. "Stan, sit next to the boy – I mean girl – that you think is the cutest!"

"Seriously?" I ask, deadpan.

"Yes, I'm seriously that cool a teacher," Mr Garrison trills.

I scan the class again. I want to sit next to Kyle, who's watching me intently. He rolls his eyes when he catches me looking at him and shrugs. This must be typical behaviour for Mr Garrison and Kyle's as exasperated by it as I am.

"I can't just sit next to someone I know?"

"Stanley, tell us who in the class you think is the hottest!" Mr Garrison barks. I quickly jab a finger at a girl near to Kyle. Luckily, Garrison ousts the person between this girl and Kyle from her seat and I get to take her place. The class starts chatting again as I sit. I glance at Kyle, but he's started talking to the person on the other side of him. I turn to the girl I nominated as cutest. She actually happens to be pretty cute. Her hair is the same shade as mine, but it's way glossier and a lot longer. I wonder if mine would fall that nicely at that length, or if it'd rebel? It's hard enough to wrench a comb through it in the mornings as it is.

"Hi, Stan," she says, her voice warm and welcoming. "I'm Wendy. Sorry you were put through that, but Mr Garrison..." She trails off and raises her eyes to the ceiling, a wry grin on her face.

"He's done that before?"

"Once, he tried to get the whole class to do it. Mass chaos ensued. Craig threw a desk at Cartman and Bebe wouldn't speak to Red for a week."

"Dude. And he tried it again?" I say, instead of what I want to say, which is 'Who did Kyle pick?'.

"Yeah, I'm probably going to get shanked later," Wendy laughs. "But it's cool that you're interested in the environment. I tried setting up an Young Environmentalists group here once, but it folded after Cartman assaulted it with rotten eggs and animal carcasses."

"Damn, that sucks. Are there any animal rescue centres nearby? I volunteered a lot back home and-"

"Oh, yes!" She scribbles something in her floral notebook and tears the page out for me. "That's the closest one. They house a variety of domestic animals. I walk the dogs there pretty often." She smiles at something behind me. "You okay there, Kyle?"

"Fine!" Kyle says, breezily, turning back to the person next to him. The person flips me off under his desk. Wendy giggles at my confusion.

"Craig does that," she whispers to me. "Don't worry about it."

"But what have I done?"

"Did you get Red Racer cancelled?"

"That kids' show? Nope."

"Then probably nothing."

"Shut up, all of you!" Mr Garrison yells. "Some dumbass hid something important in my daily register. Apparently if you little dillweeds want a class trip, you've got to actually work for it and raise the cash yourselves."

"Wouldn't we usually pay for it ourselves?" Kyle asks.

"Yeah, but this time you've got to actually earn the money. There will be no more free rides, the school says. So if you want your stupid trip, you've got to raise the funds yourselves and show the school your entrepreneurial spirit."

"What the hell is that?" Eric asks. Mr Garrison throws a dictionary at him. Eric ducks and Kenny dives to the floor. The dictionary lands innocently on Eric's desk.

"Look it up unless your fingers are too damn fat. Now, do any of you have any not stupid ideas on how to raise the money?"Eric strains his hand as far into the air as it will go and waves it back and forth.

"Yes, Eric?"

"I can't take part. My religion forbids doing dumb extracurricular crap!"

"God, do you have to be so damn cliché?" Mr Garrison puts on a high pitch. "Look at me, I'm a fat kid and I'm lazy!"

"Ey! I'm not fucking fat, goddammit!"

"Need to see a mirror?" Craig asks him. "A really big one, so you can see yourself in your entirety for the first time in your life?"

"Mr Garrison, I think we should sell enemas so that Craig can get that sand out of his asshole!"

"I think we should sell the candy Cartman brings to school. We'll make a fortune."

"We should whore out Craig's guinea pig!"

"Leave Zigzag out of this!"

"Enough!" Mr Garrison bellows, pushing his desk over in frustration. "You little shits are the worst! Since you can't work as a class, we'll turn it into a competition. So sort yourselves into groups of four. The group that raises the least will have to go back to kindergarten."

"Stan, get your ass over here!" Kenny yells at me, tentatively pulling himself up from the floor and checking for any more missiles. My heart sinks, but I don't want to lose the friends I've made, especially with Kyle being weird. I perch on Kenny's desk, which is handily next to Eric and Butters' desks.

"We have to win," Eric says immediately. "We have to absolutely crush everyone else. What can we do which will get us a lot of money?"

"Strip club," Kenny replies.

"Kenny, we're boys. Girls don't want to see boys naked," says Butters. Kenny laughs and cups his hands around his mouth.

"Hey, girls! Want to see me and Stan naked?"

"Hell yeah!" a blonde girl chirps, whilst a girl beside her nods vigorously. Kenny smiles triumphantly. He smile disappears when Mr Garrison whacks him around the head with a rolled up magazine.

"No strip clubs at your age!" he barks. "Wait until you're eighteen!"

"So...in a few months?"

"Sure, whatever." He strides back to his desk, his attention quickly returning to his gossip magazine.

"Girls totally want to see me naked more than they want to see your poor ass naked, Kenny," Eric says, leaning back in his chair and running a hand dramatically through his hair.

"Do not."

"Do so."

"Then let's make a poll."

"Make it about who's hotter," Mr Garrison interrupts, making me jump. I didn't realise he was listening in on us – nor can I figure out how, with the general classroom noise in the background. "I'm less likely to get sued that way. And if I get sued-"

"Then you'll hunt us down and sell our organs to pay for it," Eric and Kenny finish.

"That's right."

"Whatever, the voting system would be so fucked up the results wouldn't represent what the students really feel," Eric says.

"Dude, it'll be a tally mark next to our names. How is that fucked up?"

"Mr Garrison, I don't think either of them are hot. How would I vote?" Craig asks.

"Like I give a crap about whether guys think I'm hot," Eric huffs. "We wouldn't ask guys."

"No one thinks you're hot, Cartman."

"I'm hotter than you, Craig!"

"You're really not," Kyle says, his voice cool. "Craig, we need to work on this."

"Yeah, Craig, go work on your fagitude with your fag boyfriend!"

"Eric, you can't use that word unless you're gay!" Mr Garrison intervenes. Craig flips Cartman off and huddles closer with Kyle and the others in his group. Their voices drop to whispers. Cartman narrows his eyes at them and shuffles his chair a little closer. Suddenly, Butters claps his hands together, his eyes alight with excitement.

"We should make a blog about cute animals."

"And we will make money how?" Eric demands.

Butters looks down and fidgets with his hands. He chews his lip for a moment, then glances up again brightly.

"We'll get advertisers!"

"I think the cute animal market might be saturated on the internet," I say. "How about a bake sale? Everyone likes baked goods."

"Mr Garrison, Stan was spying on our group!" Craig yells, glaring at me. "We just decided to have a bake sale."

"Maybe he came up with the same stupid idea on his own," Mr Garrison mutters, not looking up from his magazine – which is a different one from earlier. How much trash does this teacher read whilst on the job?

"What the hell? Craig totally just overheard Stan and stole our idea!" Eric says, outrage plastered over his face. "Mr Garrison, it's your duty to ban Craig's gang from doing a bake sale!"

"It was our idea!"

"Like hell it was!"

"We should have a bake off," says the tall black guy in their group. Kyle smiles at this suggestion.

"Yeah," he enthuses. "Token's right. We can sell our baked goods at the same time and see which group does better."

Logically, I know that this is a terrible idea – we'll both have half, at best, of the potential market, meaning that neither group will make as much as they might have otherwise, and the school trip fund won't be as big as it could be – but it'll mean getting to see more of Kyle, so I find myself nodding in agreement.

"It is on," says Eric.

* * *

><p>Fun fact – all of this was supposed to happen in the first chapter. I wrote up a plan for a story for the first time ever and...yeah, that didn't work out so great. Anyhoo, I hope you're all enjoying this. If you're not, you should maybe stop reading or at least make a drinking game to go along with it. Share the rules with me if you do, mmkay?<p> 


	4. Chapter 3

I've been in South Park for almost a week now. Mom and Dad are proud of how well I'm settling in – I've made quarterback, the school hasn't had to ring home to complain about my behaviour and they approve of all of my friends, somehow. Eric has yet to make any racist rants and Kenny's managed to avoid any dirty comments around my mom – in fact, he can actually be quite charming, in a cheeky sort of way. Mom thinks Butters is precious.

They've not met Kyle yet.

I thought we'd be best friends forever straight away, both eschewing the division between our cliques in order to have amazing adventures, or at least epic gaming marathons or...something. He's been nice when we've had chance to talk – which is scarcer than it should be, when he sits next to me in homeroom and we've got Biology, Gym and English together. He'll always look happy to see me, but then not really talk that much. He seems more interested in talking to Craig, who likes to give me the finger whenever Kyle isn't looking.

I guess Kyle is just one of those guys who's nice and friendly to everyone. His initial enthusiasm wasn't a sign that we had some sort of special connection.

Not that knowing that stopped me feeling elated when he came to try-outs to cheer for me.

I'm currently searching the internet for recipes for tomorrow's big bake off. I had no idea that so many recipes for the same things existed. My culinary experience is limited to having ingredients plopped down in front of me and being instructed on exactly how and when to do everything. It's becoming apparent that I shouldn't have suggested the damn bake sale idea, since I've no idea if the others can cook at all or if they're assuming, understandably, that I'll have it all in hand.

I tried turning to the parental figures for assistance. Both are pretty competent cooks – Mom does the best pork chops in the world, shame about the flavourless boiled potatoes, whilst Dad can cook anything with a fancy name like an expert. Just don't ask him for anything you wouldn't find in a Michelin starred restaurant. The result was that they both tried to teach me at the same time, Mom suggesting the simple way and Dad trying to elevate everything into culinary heaven. Mom ended up throwing a nutmeg grater at him and he spent the evening sneezing. In other words, it wasn't a success.

"Stan!" Mom hollers from downstairs. "You've got a friend to see you!"

For the first couple of days here, that would have confused me. Back in Portland, I tended to organise everything with my friends – we didn't just drop around at each other's houses. I guess in South Park, everything's closer together, so if you drop around at a friend's place and they're not in there's not as much lost as if you'd walked ages to get there. Or maybe attitudes are just different, maybe just in the people I hang around with. Anyway, I make my way downstairs.

It's Kyle. My heart, needless to say, races. I whisk him away from Mom's interrogation, which was focusing on college when I interrupted, and practically drag him into my room. He examines it with the much the same delight and awe as I inspected his.

"You have the coolest collection of games ever," he says authoritatively, running a finger longingly down my special edition of Silent Hill 2. "Is this the one with the DVD?"

"Yeah. You can borrow it if you want," I offer. He grins and slides it off the shelf, examining it reverently.

"Awesome! Thanks, dude." His attention wanders over to my DVD collection, my books (which are far fewer in number than his) and the decorations in the room. I'm more than happy to just watch him, admiring in particular his ass in those trousers (though I'm slowly starting to believe that his ass would look amazing in anything) and commenting where I can. Finally, once he's satisfied that he's seen everything my room has on display, he joins me on the bed.

"So what do you want to do?" I ask, remembering my duties as host. Kyle's face takes on a pink tinge.

"Oh, right, I didn't tell you. I was actually just stopping by on my way to a party. I thought maybe you'd like to come with me."

"Wait," I say, slowly. He looks at me, surprised. His lips are parted ever so slightly and I try not to think about slipping my tongue between them. "Is this just a ploy to get me trashed to ruin my performance at the bake off tomorrow?" He laughs. I love his laugh, slightly high pitched, slightly wicked – like he's doing something bad and relishing it.

"Maybe," he says, kicking his legs in the air. "Do you think I'd do that?"

"I don't know. You've gone after the wrong person if that was your intention."

He stills his legs and looks at me with concern. I shrug, as if it's nothing, no one's counting on me – but I feel like he can see through that. Or maybe I just want him to be able to.

"So you aren't hiding any amazing culinary talents?" It's my turn to laugh.

"I don't even know what recipes to use."

He hops onto my computer and starts typing away, each keystroke deft and precise. I hover nearby, curious. My browser is filling with tabs before my eyes. Kyle spins around in the chair and smiles at me.

"There's a good selection there for a few things," he says. "None of them should be too tricky, but I'll have my laptop nearby and I'll be on Facebook chat if you need help. Okay?"

"Are these recipes all shit?" I ask.

"You'll have to trust me."

"And I should do that because...?"

"Because I like you."

"Oh." I look out of the window, trying not to over analyse the statement and flush. "Oh, thanks for coming to the try-outs, by the way."

"No problem. Feel free to come to the basketball ones next week if you want to repay the favour."

"When are they?"

"Tuesday, after school." He wriggles in the chair. "But don't feel like you've got to come."

"I'll be there," I promise. "With pompoms, if you want." He chuckles.

"I can't see you as a cheerleader." His phone rings, the sound splitting our conversation. He pulls it out and checks the caller, but doesn't answer it.

"It's okay if you need to take a call," I tell him, plopping back down on the bed. He glances at me, then back at the phone. Sighing, he stands up.

"I'd better go," he says. "Sorry to dash like this..."

"It's cool." I pass him the game he'd been looking at earlier. "Don't forget this."

"Thanks," he says, smiling a little. "I'll arrange a proper hanging-out session soon, I promise."

"Awesome." I grin, but the ringing is still blazing between us. "See you tomorrow, I guess."

"You bet. Bye, Stan." He exits my room, waving, but I follow him to the doorway and watch him leave the house. I get an extra couple of waves for my trouble.

"He's lovely," Mom says, materialising at my side. "You should invite him over more."

"Yeah," I sigh. I just wish I knew what was up with the extremes between how he acted when we were alone and when we were at school.

* * *

><p>It's eleven in the morning on a Saturday and I'm hammering on Eric's front door. I'm not happy about any of these things. We're supposed to be getting together now to work on stuff for the bake sale, but Butters, Kenny and I are currently being denied entrance to the Cartman abode. Butters is trying to ring him to wake him up, Kenny is yelling at Eric's window and I'm losing skin on my knuckles from hammering so hard.<p>

It wouldn't be such a big deal if Eric hadn't promised that he had everything we needed at his house and that we had to be there at eleven sharp to make sure we kicked the ass of the other group. As it is, all I've got for the day is print outs of Kyle's recipes and a netbook in case I need his assistance and Butters says if he comes home without a few baked goods for his parents he'll be grounded. I've gathered without asking that using the resources at Kenny's might not be a feasible option.

Ten minutes later, Eric's mom's car arrives in the driveway. She's done a major shop – there are bags full of nothing but doughnuts and chips. We help her get the food into the house whilst she goes to wake up Eric. It's not until quarter to twelve that he actually joins us in the kitchen, whilst we're all working on different projects. Kenny's making rice krispie cakes, Butters is making cupcakes (and has demanded the right to decorate them) and I'm making snickerdoodles.

Eric decides to make himself useful by browsing the internet on my netbook.

I'm innocently mixing the ingredients together, working slowly and checking the recipe every couple of seconds, when Eric roars like a wounded rhino. All eyes suddenly turn to him and Butters mumbles something about spilling flour on himself. Eric, however, is typing furiously on my netbook.

"I'll show that asshole," he growls. "Thinks he can out bake me, huh?"

"You haven't baked anything," I point out.

"Screw you hippie, I'm the head chef. It's my job to keep you all in line and swear when you fuck up."

"Well, Eric, you ain't done much of that either," says Butters.

"Butters! Fucking..." Eric swivels to see what Butters is doing. "Fucking mix that stuff better! And add more sugar!"

"But that will throw the recipe off!" Butters wails. Luckily, Eric's turned back to the netbook and is typing again. We all go back to baking, thankful for the respite. I'm still trying to figure out if my dough is smooth enough. There are very tiny lumps in the mixture. Is that normal? The recipe said it'd be easier with an hand mixer, but I don't know how to use one or where it might be or if there even is one in the kitchen.

"It's no good," Eric says, finally, interrupting my consistency crisis. "We've got to go around there."

"Go where?" Kenny asks, not moving from his spot on the stove. He's stirring some kind of sweet-smelling mixture. I wonder if he'll let me lick the spoon.

"Craig's. He won't accept that our baking is way more awesome than his."

"If we go over there, we won't finish the baking," I tell him.

"So?"

"So our baked goods will be non-existent and we won't beat them!" I explain, pinching my nose.

"Which is why I'm going to destroy their baking," Cartman slowly says. "God, new kid, you'll dumb as shit."

"What about raising funds?"

"Like I care about that crap."

"But that's the whole point of this!"

"Whatever. I just want to make Craig cry. Let's go."

"Coming, Eric," Butters says, sighing. Kenny shakes his head.

"If I leave now, this'll turn to glue," he says, gesturing at the boiling contents of the pot.

"I'll stay with Kenny."

"But you guuuuys," Eric whines, balling his hands into chubby fists and scrunching up his eyelids. "How can I be a badass dude with Butters? Butters is a pussy!"

"You'll figure something out," I say, still frantically mixing the ingredients. There are still tiny lumps in the otherwise perfect mixture. What the hell do they want from me?

"I guess my total awesomeness will make up for Butter's being a complete pussy," Eric muses, tapping his chin thoughtfully. He grins and yanks open a drawer. It's a rolling pin, not a knife, that he pulls out, and I feel almost drunk with relief. "You're right, hippie. Butters, come on!"

They stride out of the room. I return to my recipe. Why doesn't it say how long this should take? How am I supposed to know if this will fix itself or if it needs to be scrapped? I'm tempted to message Kyle for assistance, but he picked this recipe. He must have thought it was too easy to fuck up.

"Hey, Kenny, you know anything about snickerdoodles?" I ask, but my words are drowned out by a gunshot. I instinctively dive to the floor and crawl under the kitchen table. Kenny's body sways before falling to the floor with a thump that echoes in my ears. I fumble in my pockets and pull out my phone. My shaking fingers drop it and I pick it up again. I hit the screen without thinking about it and hold it to my ear.

"Hey, Stan!" Kyle says. "What's up?"

"Kenny," I stammer. "Oh...oh, my God..."

"Not Kenny, Stan. Kyle. I'm Kyle."

"No," I hiss. There's a pool of blood forming around Kenny now. "Kenny... Oh, God..."

"What-" Suddenly, Kyle inhales sharply. "The bastards. Don't worry, Stan, I'll be there in a minute."

"No! He was shot! You need to stay away from here!"

"Have there been any further shots?"

"Not yet..."

"It'll be fine. Trust me. I'll be there for you soon."

"But..."

"It's okay," he breathes down the phone, his voice soft. "I'll stay on the line until I get there."

"Thanks... But aren't you scared?" I hear a door shutting at the other end of the line and the solid sliding of a lock.

"Nah. I'd explain, but you wouldn't believe me."

"Would so," I argue, but it comes up quavering and weak.

"How's the baking coming along?"

"Oh, shit!" I scramble up from the floor and dash to the stove, hopping over Kenny's dead body to get there. Kenny was right – without him stirring it, it's turned into a thick burnt mess. I poke it with the flat stirring thing, chipping off a tiny ashen lump. "Fuck, the rice krispie cakes are ruined..."

"What else have you got?"

"Butters has mixed up some stuff for cupcakes," I tell him, returning to where Butters was working. Aside from the fallen flour, Butters is really tidy when he works. He's even ticked off how far down the recipe he was. Maybe Eric often interrupts stuff like this. "I think they just need to be put in those, uh, cupcake wrapper things and baked."

"And decorated," Kyle reminds me.

"Butters was really insistent about doing that. He might shank me if he comes back and they're done."

"I'll protect you."

"The class nerd is going to protect the quarterback?" I rub my chin. "This isn't bizzaro world, Kyle."

"This nerd is going to kick your ass for that."

"That's not very protective."

"Butters might take pity on you if you've already been pulverised. Anyway, what else are you making?"

"I'm making snickerdoodles. Eric wasn't doing anything."

"That's because Cartman is a lazy asshole."

"He doesn't like you much, either." Kyle snorts.

"No, but he still misses me. He tries to rope me into hanging out with him about once a month."

"Huh." This didn't fit at all with what I'd previously been told or what Eric himself had said about Kyle.

"It's really complicated," Kyle says, guessing my perplexion. "Try not to think about it."

I jump, hearing a knock at the door and drop the phone. It lands near Kenny's body and the full shock of what happened hits me. I crumple to the floor, my chest pounding. How can I be worried about cupcakes and the people's friendships when one of my only friends here lies dead on the floor? What's wrong with me?

"Stan? Stan?" Kyle's still on the phone, just as he promised. But how can he be so laid back about this? Like it's nothing new? Nothing unexpected? Unless...unless he knew it was going to happen because he was the killer...

I'm trapped by two strong arms wrapped around my chest. I wriggle, trying to get free, but I'm pulled backwards into the living room and thrown onto the couch. I grab the nearest object to hand and brandish it at my assailant.

"Did you kill him?" I demand, stabbing the purple glittery object in the air towards Kyle. "Is that what this is about?"

Kyle steps back, hands outstretched. His mouth is twisted in a mocking smirk. I climb to my feet and advance on him, still thrusting my weapon towards him.

"For the love of Abraham, Stan, I didn't kill Kenny. Can you please put the vibrator down?"

My eyes focus on the weapon for the first time. I drop it and dash into the kitchen. I turn the hot tap on at full blast and shove my hands under it, wincing it the heat. Kyle follows me into the kitchen and crouches beside Kenny.

"Shot to the head," he whispers. "At least he didn't suffer much."

"What kind of response is that?" I scream, backing away from him. "What the fucking fuck, Kyle?"

He gently closes Kenny's eyes, then stands. He rummages in a nearby cupboard and retrieves a sponge. He dampens it at the sink, then starts mopping the blood from Kenny's face. I can't stand to look at it. I have to support myself with both arms on the kitchen counter.

"I'll take him outside," Kyle says from behind me. "The police don't come out for Kenny any more."

"Bullshit," I growl. "You're just trying to hide the evidence?"

"Ring them and find out for yourself."

"I will!" I seize the phone and stab at the keypad. By the time Kyle returns, Kenny's body removed, I've hung up. I've slunk down against the fridge, my head buried in my crossed arms. Kyle sits beside me and puts an arm around my shoulder.

"Sorry," he whispers. "This is South Park."

"This is fucked up," I sob.

"That's what I said."

"I hate it."

"Me too." Kyle rests his head against mine. "You've no idea what it was like growing up here. The worst things would unfold around me, ever since I can remember, but everyone just kept making the same stupid mistakes. When I tried pointing out what was wrong, I just got laughed at. I lost my best friends because no one could stop Cartman being such a douche and I couldn't handle the constant torment."

I glare at him. "Dude. Kenny is fucking dead." He smiles, sadly.

"Yeah. You should check out his notch collection. Not that it means much to anyone most of the time."

"What?" I say, ejecting the word cleanly and forcefully, hoping to crack through the bullshit.

"Kenny dies a lot. Sometimes, like now, we'll be cognisant of the trend. Other times...well, he says that other times, no one remembers it happening before, or remembers it the day after."

Kyle is crazy and probably a murderer. I shuffle away from him and scope the room for the best exit. Via the living room is probably my best option. I focus on the doorway, preparing to sprint like never before-

And through the doorway comes Kenny.


	5. Chapter 4

I prise my eyes open. Kyle's face is mere inches from mine, his arms wrapped around my shoulders. My torso is being propped up by warm legs – presumably Kyle's. I murmur happily, not questioning the loving embrace, and lean closer, close enough to almost touch the soft skin of his lips with my own.

"Hey, he's back!" I twist around abruptly. Kenny's kneeling beside me. He pats me on the back and offers me a hand. I'm hauled back to my feet, swaying a little as I stand. "We were worried about you, dude."

"How are you feeling, Stan?" Kyle asks, hopping up and placing a steadying hand on my shoulder.

"Uh..." I look at them both. I've no idea what's happened. Context would suggest that I passed out, but that doesn't really make sense. I've got no health problems which would cause that to happen and what else could have caused it? "I feel...okay, I guess."

You know what I don't want to do? I don't want to ask what happened. That's, like, the most cliché response to fainting possible. I also don't want to look like a pussy in front of Kyle, so I excuse myself to the bathroom to try to get my bearings.

After some not very interesting minutes of sitting down until I feel normal again, I head back towards the kitchen. There's a whirring noise – a mixer noise. Dammit, did Kenny know where the hand mixer was all along?

"I don't think he'll wuss out," Kenny says. Is he talking about me? Just because I had one unexplainable fainting spell, that doesn't make me some kind of weakling. I almost charge in to defend myself, but Kyle's words cut me back.

"Like hell he won't. You know what turnover in this town is like. He's got a month, tops."

So much for liking me. I lean closer to the doorway, eager to hear more. What are they talking about? Some kind of hazing ritual?

"You didn't seem to think that last weekend."

I like the sound of this way more, unless passing out is what's stripped me of credibility with Kyle and now I've ruined everything forever.

"Go get fucked."

Goddammit, Kyle.

"I thought you were gonna spread your asscheeks for him right in front of me and Butters."

Now that would have been awesome. Shame I can't tell how much of what Kenny's saying is just jest. He's talking like he always talks: lightly, cheerfully, with a filthy tongue, which means it's pretty much impossible to learn anything from.

"Want to die again?"

Also unhelpful. Also, weird. Did I mishear? Oh, God, did I pass out in the bathroom and am hallucinating all of this? I pinch myself, but either I'm a crappy pincher or I'm sleeping. I bite down on my knuckles, my panic making my bite harder than usual. Yeah, I'm awake.

"You're really desperate to be alone with your buttbuddy."

"I mean it, Kenny. I will gut you."

"Yeah, you murdering me whilst Stan's in the house will really make him want to stay."

"At least it wouldn't just be postphoning the inevitable."

I'm going to leave the house at some point in the future. Is that what they're talking about? Were they doing something weird earlier that made me faint? This is too incomprehensible. I wish they'd go back to talking about me and Kyle fucking.

"I fucking swear you weren't always this whiny."

"I'm not fucking whiny!"

"You so are."

Now's probably a safe time to make my entrance. Kenny's back at the stove, working on another mixture for the krispie cakes. Kyle's the one mixing the dough for the snickerdoodles. I peek over his shoulder. The surface is smooth and slightly frothy, like a freshly made milkshake.

"Thanks, dude," I say. Kyle jumps a little, lifting the mixer slightly. Blobs of the dough are sent flying over both of us. He switches it off and wipes his face, grinning awkwardly.

"Oh, hey. Didn't realise you were back."

"Yeah, I am." Oh, man, what is with me? Great conversational skills there, Stan. "Guess that recipe was too tough for me after all."

"It just needed a little help. The dough tastes great."

"Oh, I didn't think to try it." Yeah, who would taste test their cooking instead of jumping to the assumption that it sucked? God, I fail at baking.

"Don't you ever lick the bowl when you bake?"

"I don't bake. Remember?"

"You're missing out, dude." Kyle runs a slender finger around the bowl's brim and brings it to his mouth. His tongue darts out and licks the creamy goo away with a pleased murmur. My mind is instantly discarded into the gutter. I follow his lead and scoop up some of the dough. Kyle watches me closely as I bring it to my mouth. Is he into me? Now is the perfect opportunity to find out.

The sound of loud guffawing breaks my reverie. I glare at Kenny, whose presence I'd completely forgotten. Kyle's mouthing something at him, but stops suddenly when he notices me watching him. He gives Kenny the finger and goes back to work on the snickerdoodles. I finally taste the mixture on my finger. It's good, but not as great as it could be.

"I've mixed the sugar and cinnamon together, so now we just need to roll the dough balls in it."

"Oh, okay. How do we make the balls?"

"Like this." Kyle dips his hand into the bowl and scoops some dough out. He rolls it between his hands, making a smooth little ball, and gestures for me to do the same. I know this will end in disaster, but I take some dough and try to roll it. Kyle snickers at the sausage I've somehow made and lifts it out of my hands. "You've got to roll it in more than one direction. Watch my hands."

"Kyle's really with his hands," Kenny tells me, grinning cheekily. Kyle doesn't look up from his work, still carefully forming the little ball.

"Die shitting, Kenny," he says.

"He can do pretty much any job with them."

"Shouldn't you be trying to get high on drain cleaners or something?"

"You could say that he's just really good at all hand jobs."

"Very droll." Kyle shows me the perfect ball. "Think you'll be able to do it now, Stan?"

"Sure." I try again with a new scoop of the dough. Despite my best efforts, it still winds up sausage shaped, though a bit fatter this time.

"Let me help," Kyle says, placing his hands on mine.

"Yeah, Stan, let Kyle give you a hand," Kenny sniggers.

Kyle refuses the bait and gently guides my hands with his soft ones. I let him manipulate my fingers, watching as intently as I can bear whilst occasionally glancing up at his face. He's so serious about this. He's probably not remotely considering the implications of moulding another guy's hands.

"Done," he announces, withdrawing his hands from mine. "Want to try again?"

"Yeah." I try my hardest to replicate Kyle's gentle movements, but my ball ends up slightly squished somehow. Kyle assures me that it's fine and we use up the rest of the dough together. The balls get coated in the sugar and cinnamon and they're finally ready to be baked. Kyle pops them in the oven and sets the timer whilst I start on the washing up. Kenny's already put his krispie cakes in the fridge to set and is watching some kind of crappy reality show in the living room.

"Hey, Kyle?" I ask, a thought finally hitting me. "What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be helping your group?"

There's a pause. Kyle doesn't move from his position, crouched in front of the oven, and I worry that something's gone wrong. I'm about to ask what when he finally speaks.

"I've pretty much done everything over there. So I figured I'd just come check up on how you were holding up, especially after Cartman and Butters abandoned you two."

"Oh, right. Thanks, dude."

"No problem. I should probably get back now, anyway." He stands and flashes me a smile. "See you later, I guess."

"Yeah."

He heads out. I'm tempted to follow him to the door and wave goodbye, but I don't want Kenny ragging on me like he was with Kyle. I keep myself busy washing up and drying up, then taking the snickerdoodles out when the oven bleeps. I'm stuck on what to do with Butter's cupcake dough – it should probably be baked, but at what temperature and for how long, I've no clue.

"Kenny, do you know how to bake cupcakes?"

"Shove them in the oven."

"How long?"

"Dude, I'm not a fucking cookbook. Just leave it."

I join him on the couch. The reality show is even worse close to. It's centred around kindergarten kids trying to start their own business. Unsurprisingly, a lot of the money making schemes revolve around selling finger painted pictures, though I'm pretty impressed by the kid who goes around demanding protection money and terrorises anyone who won't give him it by dressing up as a dinosaur and chasing them around.

The slamming of the front door jolts me out of the show, but Kenny barely seems to register it. Eric storms into the room, followed by Butters. Whilst Butters dashes into the kitchen, despairing about his uncooked cupcakes, Eric paces in front of the TV.

"I'm watching that," Kenny says.

"You guys, we seriously have a serious problem," says Eric. "They left that shitrag Kyle in charge of baking everything. That crafty Jew wasn't even at Craig's house. We spent all this time hunting for the food and it wasn't fucking there."

"So it'll just be a matter of who the better cook is," I say, shrugging. "Which I guess will be Kyle."

"You hippie asshole, will you please resign as president of that douche's fanclub and get serious? We need to destroy them!"

"We'll be all right," Butters pipes up from the kitchen. He's typing on my netbook. "A lot of the girls say they'll be coming by to support us. Ain't that sweet of them?"

"What?" Eric asks, mouth agape.

"I posted on Facebook about us doing the bake sale and tons of girls from our class asked about it. They sure do seem keen to try Stan's snickerdoodles!"

Eric charges into the kitchen and grabs the netbook from Butters. He chews his lip thoughtfully, then looks at me.

"The girls sure do seem to like you, Stan."

"That's nice of them," I reply without thinking, then curse myself. That's got to be the gayest response to that news possible.

"Maybe if we pimp you out to whoever spends the most, we can still beat Craig," Eric muses.

"I don't want to be pimped out!" I protest.

"I want to be pimped out!" Kenny insists, suddenly losing interest in his TV show.

"Girls aren't interested in poor guys, Kenny," says Eric. "Hippie, you have to be cool with being pimped out. Being a big whore is what hippieism is all about."

"I'm not a goddamn hippie!"

"Whatever, I'm telling the girls that you find buying baked goods totally hot."

"But that's also what Craig's group is selling!"

"Pimp me out!" Kenny begs, actually turning away from the TV.

"Yeah, well, maybe you should take your shirt off to give us the edge."

"I'm not even taking my coat off! I'll freeze to death!" Maybe this is what Kyle and Kenny were talking about. Eric does seem intent on plans which could result in my demise.

"I'll take my shirt off! And my pants!"

"No one cares, Kenny."

"Oh, hey! Token's posted about their bake sale!" Butters announces. "The girls are saying they'll come support them, too. Gee, the girls have sweet teeth, huh?"

"That fucking asshole! He's just cashing in on his good looks!" He starts typing frantically.

"Eric, what does Token's girlfriend have to do with the bake sale?" Butters asks innocently.

"The girls will know. Stan, why don't you have a relationship status? Come change it to single right now, dickweed!"

"No."

Eric stomps over and brandishes the netbook in my face.

"Change it!"

"But I don't give a crap about Facebook."

"That's nice. Just look at all the flying fucks I give."

"This is really dumb."

"Just change your fucking status, hippie."

I look to Kenny for support, but he shakes his head. Butters is busy doing something in the kitchen and probably wouldn't be great at backing me up anyway. I reluctantly reach out for the netbook and poke around on the website, trying to figure out how you're supposed to change that nowadays. Eric taps his feet impatiently whilst I struggle. The deed finally done, a stupid little heart appearing next in my newsfeed next to my name, and I pass the machine back to Eric. Satisfied at last, he sits on the couch beside me. He's grinning a lot for some reason, but the dinosaur kid is back on screen and is way more interesting.

* * *

><p>I've been lumbered with carrying the table for our sale. We're holding the sale in a neutral place to ensure a fair contest, which means I'm carrying a table over slippery ice all the way to the pond. Stupid South Park. Kenny's carrying all the food in tupperware boxes piled so high he's having to judge where to walk based on the people around him. Butters has got bags full of tablecloths, plates, signs and a box to use as a till. Eric is just lugging himself.<p>

Kyle and the others are already setting up. I wave at Kyle, who sees me but doesn't respond in a very pointed way. Their display, though only half set up, is far more impressive than ours will be. They've procured fancy racks to display cupcakes on, doilies for each plate and a professional printed banner proclaiming "The Bestest Bakery" and in smaller font: "Which Craps All Over the Jerk Bakery of Jerkitude".

"Aw, shucks," says Butters, looking at their table. "I'd buy stuff from them, guys."

"Stop being a traitorous douchenozzle, Butters," Eric snaps. "Our stuff is a million times better than theirs. Besides, I have a secret plan..." He rubs his hands with glee. "And it's working already."

A pretty girl with frizzy brown hair approaches. She's wearing makeup more suited to a nightclub than a walk in the fresh air and an impressively short skirt considering the weather. Weirdly, she seems to be grinning at me, but I've never seen her before. Kenny clicks his tongue.

"Cartman, what the fuck did you do?"

"Shut up, Kenny," Eric mutters, then addresses the girl, beaming, whilst I assist Butters and Kenny in unpacking everything. "Hiiii, Rebecca."

"Hey, Cartman." She takes hold of my arm and squeezes. "Hey, cutie. Thanks for adding me on Facebook."

Eric is holding a finger to his lips and waving another in front of his throat. I grunt at him, then smile feebly at the girl.

"Uh. Hi. No problem."

She walks her fingers up my arm, still smiling coyly. I'm sure there's a chance I'd be enjoying this if I liked girls, but all I want to do is flee. It's taking a lot of restraint to keep myself rooted to the spot. She leans closer and breathes into my ear.

"I hear you're looking for someone," she whispers.

"Oh. Really?" I glower at Eric, who is munching obliviously on one of my snickerdoodles.

"Yeah. You should totally give me a poke sometime." She leans back and winks at me.

"Wha-" I realise what she means and I flush. "Oh. That's, um, really nice of you."

"I really want to taste you...your cooking," she says. "Which did you make?"

"The. Um. The snickerdoodles."

Eric sells her a bundle of the snickerdoodles. Rebecca and Kenny chat amiably whilst Butters wraps up her goods, and I drag Eric aside.

"What the fuck did you do?" I demand.

"Nothing!" he protests, rubbing his arm where I grabbed him. "Jesus, hippie, be a little less rough."

"This is your secret plan, isn't it?" I persist.

"No!"

"Are you trying to pimp me out?"

"No!"

"Then what the fuck-"

He slaps a hand over my mouth and drags me back to the stall. More girls are waiting, and they're grinning at me like Rebecca was. One I vaguely recognise from school, but the other I've never seen before.

"Hi, Stan," purrs one, whilst her friend giggles. Girls giggling always put me on edge. I'm always convinced that the laughter is aimed at me and it inevitably makes me check that I'm not wearing my shirt inside out or something else. I catch myself feeling my trousers for outward-sticking seams, but I have a suspicion as to why these two might be giggly.

"Hi," I reply, trying to sound friendly. From the booth opposite, Kyle is eyeing me coldly.

"I saw what you posted on Facebook." Which is interesting, since I didn't. "I'd really like to hang out sometime."

"I think someone," I shoot an accusatory glare at Eric, who growls, "Be quiet, hippie," which I ignore, "hacked my Facebook. I don't actually know what was posted." Her face falls and her friend glares at Eric. "But it'd be cool to hang out sometime." The girl smiles again.

"Cool."

Somehow, Eric manages to sell her and her friend something, and the two of them go merrily on their way. Once they're out of earshot, I round on Eric.

"What the fuck?" he asks me.

"That's what I want to know!"

"Are you trying to sabotage us?"

"Are you trying to whore me out?"

"So what if I was? You're letting the team down!"

"I don't want to be whored out!"

"Why the hell not?" Kenny asks. "I'd fuck people for money."

"Jesus Christ," I growl. I check Facebook from my phone. Not only has Eric changed my settings to say I'm interested in girls, but he's added a bunch of girls as my friends and posted a variety of interesting statuses:

Stan Marsh is looking for a nice South Park girl! Come to the bake sale at Stark's Pond at 2 if you're interested!

Stan Marsh is lonely and hot and wants to hear about your girl problems and shit.

Stan Marsh saved a kitten from dehydration yesterday. Do you have a pussy in need of help? Get in touch at Stark's Pond at 2!

Kenny is reading over my shoulder and sniggering. Butters is also peering over, a look of bewilderment on his face.

"Are you a vet, Stan?"

I'm not amused or confused. I calmly delete the messages, then punch Eric in the face. He staggers backwards, clutching his nose. Kenny whoops and claps me on the back, and Butters shouts at Eric to be careful and not knock the display.

"The fuck was that for?" Eric yells.

"You know what the fuck that was for," I tell him. I smile at some people passing by, who are staring at the scene. "Would you like to buy a cupcake or something? It's for our class trip," I say, in my politest voice. They pause to check out the stall.

"I was setting you up with chicks! I was doing you a favour!" Eric argues, still nursing his nose.

I serve the customers with some help from Butters, ignoring Eric's whining. After they've gone away happily, I mutter, "You were being an asshole."

"I'm sorry, Stan, I didn't realise you hated pussy!" Eric snaps.

"Division within the ranks?" a familiar voice says. Wendy's stood at the booth with her best friend Bebe, whose golden curls have been tied back into pigtails today – just as Wendy's smooth black locks have been. Butters is filling a bag for them already.

"Eric's being a fuckmaggot," I explain. Bebe looks blankly at me.

"Is that supposed to be news?" she asks. "'Cause I was kind of assuming he was already."

"He was posting on my Facebook," I explain.

"You mean you're not a certified kitten hydrator? I am shocked," Wendy says, shaking her head and pouting excessively. "Just shocked."

"Not that you girls need it," Kenny interrupts, resting an arm on my shoulder and flicking his hair. "Unless you do. Then I am totally on it, like ketchup on fries."

"We're flattered," Wendy snorts.

"Like chocolate on waffles."

"We get it."

"Like..."

"Did you visit the other stall?" I ask. They nod with a guilty grin at each other.

"Yeah. Kyle's a pretty good cook," says Wendy.

"But he's real mad at you," says Bebe. "What did you do?"

"I have no idea! He was fine before he left Eric's earlier."

"That JEW was in my house?" Eric roars, right in my ear. I wince and step back, knocking Kenny off balance. "Who said he could come over? That's home invasion! I should sue his entire family!"

"I invited him," I say, then remember that wasn't what happened. He said he was just popping by. So why do I have a vague memory of ringing him up?

"Like cream splattered on pert peaches," says Kenny.

"Ew," Wendy says, deadpan, whilst Bebe giggles.

"You invited him? To my home?" Eric screeches. "I'll have to have my mom disinfect everything now!"

"Did he say anything about me?" I ask Bebe and Wendy. They shake their heads.

"He just kept glaring at you," Bebe explains.

I look over to the other table. Kyle seems really busy doing something with their till. Every time I've peeked over, he's not been bothering to look at me. I'm not sure if being ignored is better or worse than being glared at. Either way, I'm perplexed.

"Who's glaring?" Butters asks, stepping into the conversation.

"Hippie, I demand compensation for this desecration of my home!"

"He's not glaring at me now," I say, still watching the other stall intently. Kyle is now deep in conversation with Token. He keeps laughing loudly. "Though Craig has been flipping me off for a solid minute now."

The others look over to see.

"That is a hell of a flipping off," Kenny says, admirably. "What did you do?"

"Nothing!"

"And flipping people off whilst wearing gloves like that is awkward as hell," says Bebe. "Boy, he must really hate you."

"I've never spoken to him," I protest.

"Did you take a dump on his doorstep?" Eric asks, seriously. I stare at him for a moment, my face contorting into a variety of incredulous expressions.

"The fuck kind of question is that? Who would do that?" I ask, my lip curled with disgust.

"Me," says Eric.

"All the time," says Kenny. "I get paid to do it by the dozen."

"I did it once," Butters says, tracing a line in the snow with the toe of his shoe. "But only 'cause Eric told me it was real important and it'd help to cure cancer."

"Only when this guy really pissed me off," says Bebe.

I turn, in despair and desperation, to Wendy. She shuffles her feet, her head bowed.

"I was drunk," she mutters. I sigh.

"Okay, you guys would. But I wouldn't."

"How about pissing on his door?" Eric asks.

"Jesus Christ, dude. I've never spoken to him, never defecated on any part of his house, or interacted with him in any way ever."

"He's stopped flipping you off," Kenny says. I glance back over there. Kenny's observation is correct. He's talking to Kyle now.

"We've got to go now," Wendy says, checking her watch. "We're meeting Lola in town to go shopping soon."

"But we haven't figured out why Kyle's pissed at me yet!" I complain.

"So?" Cartman asks me, before addressing Bebe and Wendy. "And can't you hos send your friends over here to buy more crap?"

"Looks like you've got a load of people coming over already," Bebe says, nodding at a gaggle of approaching girls. Some of whom are pushing the definition of 'girls' and also what should be considered daywear. Some of those clothes are possibly too obscene for most bedrooms. I'm seriously not sure if it's legal for me to even be looking at them.

"More of my Facebook friends?" I ask Cartman, sourly. He shrugs.

"Like I can remember who I added."

* * *

><p><strong>I'd just like to thank everyone who's reviewed thus far – I absolutely love getting feedback and it stops me sitting there going, "Oh God, is everyone hating this story? Have I broken some cardinal fanfic rule or ten? Should I move away from the keyboard forever?"<strong>

**Flika, you'll be getting an answer to your questions next chapter! I hope it doesn't disappoint.**


	6. Chapter 5

The group of whores is still steadily approaching. One of them points at me with fingernail painted such a vivid red I can see it from here and nudges the woman beside her. The woman nods and plunges a hand into her pants. I grimace, but Kenny grins and rubs his hands.

"I like your new friends, Stan," he says. I look at him, trying to think of some sort of comeback, and his eyes stretch wide and his open mouth is spewing a string of obscenities. "Shitting fuck ass oh fuck no not again-"

"She's got a gun!" Wendy screams, far more intelligibly. She pulls Bebe away from the line of fire and they run, their steps crunching the snow underfoot-

"Fucking motherfucker is there even any point fucking fleeing oh fuck-"

The gun is pointed at me. I stare at it, willing it to be some sort of hallucination or joke, as if looking at long enough will force it to reveal hidden depths of a less pant-shittingly scary nature-

"Stan!"

Eric and Butters have followed Bebe and Wendy in fleeing. Eric is screaming at them to slow down and help him, to carry him, to use themselves as human shields so he can fulfil his destiny-

Bang.

My heart leaps and catches in my chest, suspended. Warm blood splatters my face. I don't feel pain. I just feel numb. I'm dying.

"Stan!"

Beside me, Kenny crumples to the ground.

I turn. Everything is going at the wrong speed. The trees in the background are a blur of green, but I can follow individual flakes of snow falling to the ground. What remains of Kenny's head swims in and out of focus. Blood on snow. Red and white fill my vision, swirling before my eyes. Peppermint twists.

"You got the wrong one!" someone yells.

"You killed Kenny," I whisper, still frozen to the spot. "Why did you kill Kenny?"

"You bastards!" It's the voice that's been calling my name. I look to the voice's source. It's Kyle. He's the only one who's not run away. Two women are approaching him, one of whom is holding some sort of spiked truncheon, but he's still standing there. "Stan!" he screams again.

There's another bang, but I've already fled from the spot to where Kyle's standing. I don't know where to go, what to do, and my life's goals have suddenly been whittled down to reaching Kyle and surviving this experience.

"They've got guns," I say, whilst Kyle grabs my arm and starts pulling me away from the scene. "They want me dead. Why do they want me dead, Kyle?"

"They've only got the one gun," Kyle corrects me. We're running fast, faster than I thought I could ever move. We keep lurching from side to side. I don't know why. Kyle's guiding my every movement. "It's not that bad."

"Why do they want to kill me?"

"I've no idea," he snaps. Why don't you ask them?"

"Okay." I twist so that I can see the horde of women chasing us. There is only one gun. It's not that big. But it killed Kenny.

"Fuck, Stan, I didn't-"

"Why do you want to kill me?"

"Because we're the Whore Mafia, and you're stepping on our turf!" one screams, brandishing some implement I don't recognise. It's made of what looks like black rubber and is covered in tiny knobs. It's definitely obscene. I wonder how it's supposed to be a threat to me. Maybe it's best I don't know.

"He's not a whore!" Kyle screams at them.

"We got his messages!" another yells. I stumble. Kyle's grip on me falters. I stumble and fall to the ground. I expect Kyle to continue running, but he spins on his heels and drags me up from the snow. We start running again, but my fall has allowed them to gain on us. There's another shot from the gun. I'm going to die and I still don't understand why and I really don't want to die, but more than that, more than anything, I don't want to get Kyle killed whilst trying to protect me.

The ground below our feet is getting steeper and running is getting harder. My throat and mouth taste like blood from all the exertion and my muscles are screaming with every movement. Kyle's staggering a little. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, gaining spurts of energy from the sight of our attackers.

A studded paddle arcs through the air and lands a few feet ahead of us.

Besides, if I die today, my obituary will say that I was killed by the Whore Mafia. The internet will jump on a story like that like it's a new breed of cat that can play video games and gives them scathing reviews whilst sneezing. I don't want to be a meme.

I'm going to die. I wonder if I get a last wish?

"Kyle," I pant. "Dude, I need to ask you something."

He looks over his shoulder again, then at me, frowning. My timing isn't great, but I don't think I'd be asking what I'm about to ask if I were sober.

"Who did you sit next to?"

"What?" he asks, his slim eyebrows furrowing.

"When Garrison made you pick who to sit next to. Who did you choose?"

He stops, suddenly, and I'm swung in front of him by the shift in movement. I tug on his arm, but he just stands there. His lips, which are redder than usual from the cold, are parted in an enticingly kissable way. He's looking at me very intently, but not as intently as the horde of whores who are rapidly gaining on us.

"Dude, why do you want to know that? Why now?"

"Because I'm probably going to die and this is my last chance to find out." I wrench on his arm and he stumbles towards me, his eyes still locked on mine.

There's a roar of a gas-hungry vehicle. Kyle tears from my grip and hops up and down, waving his hands in the air over his head, then starts running in its direction. I follow him, trying to make out who's driving the beat-up yellow hummer. It slows down as we approach and Kyle tears the door open. We clamber inside and the vehicle speeds up before I've even had chance to slam the door shut, let alone find out who my rescuer is.

"What the fuck, Craig?" Kyle says through gritted teeth. "Why the fuck did you bail?"

"Like everyone else did, you mean," he says. His voice is flat, as if they're discussing what to watch whilst eating dinner. "I think the fact that someone was shooting was the main reason."

"They almost killed Stan!"

"So?"

"So? So is all you've got to say?"

I'm still gasping for breath, but I wouldn't be joining in the conversation even if my throat hadn't closed up into the size of a straw. I try not to think about how much Craig hates me (which is still a god-damn mystery). Thankfully, there are a lot of distractions in Craig's car, not least the way one of Kyle's legs is draped over my lap. Less pleasant is the discarded condom on the floor, which I try to avoid stepping on.

"His friends ran away, too."

"Cartman's an asshole and Butters is a wuss. You really want to compare yourself to them?" Kyle asks, angrily.

"He was just standing there. Begging to get shot. I didn't see why I had to die because he's a dumbass."

"I'm not used to seeing guns! Having my first one pointed at my face kind of surprised me a little," I snap. I pull my phone out and bring up Facebook. Sure enough, it looks like I've been messaging a lot of people with offers of sex in exchange for them buying our baking. I click on the most threatening response, from the woman with the gun. "Oh no."

"What's wrong?" Kyle asks, the harsh edge to his voice dissolving.

"They want me to pay them ten thousand dollars," I tell him, tearing my gaze away from the phone's ominous news. "Dude, where am I going to get ten thousand dollars?"

Kyle bites his lip and looks upwards in thought, but the corner of Craig's mouth jerks upwards a fraction.

"That's nice," he says, his voice unchanged. "Where can I drop you off?"

"Craig!" Kyle snaps. "Don't be such a fucking douche."

I peer out of the window. The Mafia are only a speck on the horizon now, but that won't be enough to guarantee my safety. They've hunted me down once; they can do it again. I need to pay them off, but even if I pawned off all my possessions I'd be short by nine thousand, nine hundred or so dollars.

"How much do kidneys go for on the black market?" I ask Kyle, poking my midriff.

"Only about five thousand dollars," he replies immediately. "But it varies depending on where you have the procedure done and-"

"Kyle," says Craig, his hands gripping the steering wheel so forcefully his knuckles turn white, "Don't get involved in this shit."

"But he needs help!"

"Then he can get it from his friends. Oh, wait, they ran away."

We're back in civilisation now, or as civilised as South Park gets. It's still early in the afternoon and we pass two drunken brawls in the space of a minute. I spot a whore leaning against a building, checking out her nails, and I sink low in my seat.

"What about donating sperm?" I interrupt, ignoring Craig.

"It's a six month commitment and you have to be eighteen. Kenny's counting down the days."

"Aw, goddammit. Think they'd demand even more money if I actually did become a whore?"

"Probably. Craig, let us out."

"You're not going with him."

"I am so," Kyle insists.

"What are you going to do?" he demands, glaring at Kyle. Which is a pretty dumb thing to do when he's driving, really.

"You don't want to know," Kyle replies serenely.

"Kyle, just drop it."

"No. Stan, open the door. We'll just hop out-"

Craig slams on the brakes, staring straight ahead now. There's an odd grating noise. At first, I think something's gone wrong with the car, but the sound seems to be emanating from Craig's mouth. He's grinding his teeth roughly. I open the door and jump out, quickly followed by Kyle.

"Kyle," Craig says, but Kyle's slammed the door shut, already walking away and not looking back. Craig shakes his head, then catches me watching him and flips me off before speeding away.

Kyle's striding purposefully down an alleyway. I hurry after him, glancing around and trying to figure out what he's planning to do. Whatever it is, I'm hoping it has nothing to do with our current location, which is carpeted with rotting garbage. But we keep walking, through the alley, over a chain link fence which Kyle manages with ease and I take five minutes to get used to climbing, the loops of metal cutting into each of my fingers as I prise my body up and over the surface. We walk through thick woods, which finally give way to reveal a familiar body of water.

"Dude, what are we doing back here?" I hiss.

"Getting you the money," he replies. He guides me back to where the two stalls were, both of which have been knocked over now, the baked goods scattered on the floor. Kenny's disfigured is still lying in the snow. Kyle breathes a sigh of relief.

"Oh, no," I say, grabbing Kyle's shoulder. "We can't steal Kenny's organs. Dude, that's – that's so immoral, I don't even know where to begin-"

"Morality is relative," Kyle says, tapping his phone's screen and holding it to his ear. "Hello, Dr Mephesto? Meet me at Stark's Pond. Bring ten k." He hangs up and recoils at the look of disgust on my face. "I'm sorry, Stan, but we don't have a choice-"

"What if we, I don't know, called the police?" I ask, the possibility finally occurring to me. Kyle laughs, but it's a different laugh to the one I'm used to.

"Most probably, the Whore Mafia's paying them off in some way. If by some chance they're not, then they're just as likely to arrest you for soliciting people for sex."

"But I didn't do anything!"

"Yeah, but Cartman's more manipulative and a better liar than you."

"That's not fair!"

"South Park isn't fair," Kyle replies, gesturing at our surroundings. "Kenny gets shot, we're going to get blood on our hands – literally, I expect – and if everything goes as planned, we'll get to spend our Saturday night handing money over to the Whore Mafia. It's entirely possible that we'll get killed at some point of that process."

"How can you be so calm about it all?" I ask, taking him by the shoulders. "We're about to hand over the body of one of your oldest friends-"

"Stan, there's no way you'll understand," he says, shaking his head and pulling away from me. "But you'll be okay. You'll go home, traumatised and probably covered in blood, and your horrified parents will take you far, far away tomorrow morning and you'll never experience anything like this ever again."

A dented old van, rusted around the rims, pulls up at the sidewalk. Kyle heaves Kenny's body onto his shoulder and starts walking towards it. I run after him.

"Kyle, I'll think of something else. Just don't do this, please."

"What, you want to try and get the money selling lemonade?"

"It could work!"

Blood drips onto the back of Kyle's coat. Out of the car steps a man with heavy jowls wearing a mustard yellow Hawaiian shirt – hardly appropriate for the climate, but this is a man who's buying a dead body. He probably doesn't care too much about what's appropriate.

"Hello, Kyle," he says, raising his cane as an acknowledgement. "Good to see you again. And who's this?"

Jesus Christ, this is not how body snatchers should talk. Though I guess he's not so much as a body snatcher as a body purchaser...shit, that makes me and Kyle the body snatchers. Anyway, people shouldn't talk like that – so lighthearted and friendly – when they're buying a goddamn body.

"This is Stan," Kyle responds. "He's new here."

"Nice to meet you, Stan."

"Mm," I say, giving him only the slightest incline of my head to indicate acknowledgement.

Pleasantries done, Mephesto opens the back of the van and Kyle unloads the body. The old man quickly checks it, then pulls out a rolled wad of notes. Kyle takes it and flicks through the notes quickly, his lips forming words I can't catch, then nods with satisfaction. He pockets the cash and shakes Mephesto's wrinkled hand with his bloody one.

Like that, we've sold our friend's corpse.

"What are you going to do with Kenny?" Kyle asks.

"I was thinking of adding extra body parts. As practice, you know."

"Give him four dicks. Kenny'd love that."

"Kenny's dead!" I shout. "I'm pretty sure he doesn't care about the number of penises he has."

Mephesto stares at me, then looks back to Kyle.

"Yeah, he's new," says Kyle.

* * *

><p>The tainted money acquired now, all that's left is to get it to the whore Mafia so I can be scratched off their hit list. Kyle and I have retreated to my house for the time being. It doesn't feel safe to be here, but it doesn't feel safe to even be right now. The message to the head whore asking where to drop off the money has been sent and now I'm just pacing my room, the curtains closed.<p>

Kyle's phone keeps ringing. He doesn't pick up, but he's sent a few messages. He's chewing on his lip, his expression troubled. As it should be, since we just sold Kenny's body. Fuck, this town is so fucked up.

"You should answer your phone," I tell him, after it starts ringing for the millionth time. "Sounds like someone's worried about you."

Kyle snorts. He slides his finger of the phone's screen. The ringing ends, but he keeps pressing at the screen. He clears his throat theatrically.

"Get your ass over here now," he reads. "We need to figure out how to beat Cartman's group."

"Craig?" I ask. He nods slightly, but it's barely noticeable with his head bowed like that. "He seemed concerned when we got out of his car."

"Maybe he is. But..." Kyle trails off, shaking his head. I sit down beside him and he brushes a hand over his face.

"But?" I ask. There's a sinking feeling in my stomach I can't quite explain.

"He just doesn't care sometimes. He's got no curiosity, no concern for other people-"

"Except you."

"Kind of. I think he prefers his guinea pig to me."

"Dude, you're way cooler than some dumb guinea pig." Kyle chuckles hoarsely.

"Aren't you pissed at me for the whole selling Kenny's body thing?" I squirm under his gaze.

"I still don't think it was the right thing to do. But...I still can't think of any way we could have made the money. And I kind of like being alive, you know?"

"I do like you being alive," he agrees, smiling once more. I grin more than is probably acceptable and try not to think about what we've done. Which is way easier than it should be, thanks to Kyle sitting so close to me, except then I start to think about how I should feel guilty for thinking like that and I'm back to square one. Kyle leans in close, his fluffy red hair brushing against my cheek. "Stan, are you okay?"

"I just can't stop thinking about it, I guess," I admit. "Or about the fact that we still need to hand the money over and they'll probably try to shoot us some more."

"Want to do something to take your mind off it?"

Hell yes, I do. Theoretically, I want to screw him senseless, have him squirming underneath me and panting my name as I pound his ass. Shame it's entirely impractical and would probably result in him fleeing my house, leaving me to face the whores alone. If I could even get it up with all this guilt.

"Who did you choose to sit next to?" I ask again, grinning at him. He laughs, but it catches in his throat.

"You really want to know?"

"Yeah. I mean, you know who I think is cutest..." This is a huge lie, but I don't want to reveal that yet. Guys have stopped hanging out with me when they found out I was gay before and I couldn't bear for that to happen with Kyle.

"Huh? Oh, Wendy. Uh, you know that's not really practical, right?"

"Why not?" I ask, a shiver running down my spine. Is he jealous? Please let him be jealous.

"She's dating Bebe."

That's all? I slump forward, disappointment coursing through my veins. Kyle pats me on the back, thankfully misattributing my sadness.

"I'm sure you'll meet someone else. Your posts on Facebook seemed to be getting you a lot of attention."

"Eric's posts," I correct. "I had nothing to do with it."

"Oh, really?" He sounds chipper. I peek at him from my slouched position. His hand is covering his mouth, but his cheeks are raised as though he might be smiling. Or maybe I'm horrendously overanalysing everything. "In any case, you'll probably find yourself inundated with offers soon enough."

I shrug, then elbow him. "Anyway, I want to know. Who did you pick?"

"I didn't." I frown and raise an eyebrow in disbelief. He just laughs. "Seriously, I didn't. Two people demanded to sit either side of me that year, so I didn't get a choice."

"Only two?" I tease. "You mean the all girls weren't queuing up to sit with you?" Kyle suddenly gets really interested in his shoes.

"Actually, neither of them were girls." I cradle my head in my hands, partly 'cause it's comfy, but mostly so I can hide the look of glee on my face. If Kyle was okay with that, then maybe...maybe... My toes curl with excitement.

"Who were they?"

"Craig and Cartman. And it had nothing to do with looks," he adds, hastily. I personally think that'd be unlikely, usually, but with Eric... I just can't imagine him having a crush on anything other than a doughnut. "I think both of them were just trying to assert their dominance using me."

"What do you mean?"

"It was when I was needing to get away from Cartman because he was being a giant douche. Cartman didn't like me, but he liked my supposed defection even less. So he'd try to shoehorn himself in whenever I talked to anyone else."

"And Craig?"

"Craig...he just wanted a victory over Cartman." Kyle shuffles on the bed. "So, yeah."

"So why did Craig throw a chair?"

Kyle turns slowly to look at me, his brow slightly creased. I try to keep my face neutral, but I'm aware I'm probably bypassing the benchmark for standard curiosity. Hell, I probably sprinted passed that just by asking the first question, and now I'm throwing myself into the well policed areas of suspiciousness.

"How do you know about that?"

"Wendy mentioned it," I tell him, truthfully. "Said it was part of why Garrison didn't try it again other years."

"Oh. Right. Anyway, Craig didn't like Cartman wanting to sit with me and vice versa. So he said that Cartman didn't really think that I was the cutest and so he shouldn't be allowed to sit next to me."

"What did Garrison do?"

"Oh, he fucking loved the drama. He said they both had to prove that they had a crush on me."

My stomach knots. All of a sudden, I'm not liking the story, and I'm doubting Kyle's reliability as a narrator.

"So...Craig kissed me," Kyle says, staring at his feet again. "And so he was all, 'See, I totally have the hots for Kyle,' and I thought that was the end of it." He pales and shudders. "That was when Cartman grabbed me and shoved his tongue in my mouth."

"Oh," I say, "That must have sucked."

"He tasted like Cheesy Poofs. I got second hand Cheesy Poof crumbs in my mouth. My tongue was fucking orange."

"Ugh."

"Yeah. I ran away to the bathroom to throw up and scrape my tongue. Whilst I was gone, Craig and Cartman argued and Craig threw a chair at him."

"Oh." Kyle's phone rings again. I read the caller ID, the same as it's been all the other times Kyle's phone has rung: Craig. It hits me, at last, what I've been trying not to think about. I glance at Kyle, who's hugging his knees to his body and not touching his phone. I don't know if I want to know the answer to this. I don't know if I should know. "Dude, I think... I think Craig likes you."

"I'd hope so," he mutters. "He's my boyfriend."

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I hope this one cleared up some of the questions that've been asked lately, but some things will take a while to become clear. <strong>

**What'd everyone think to last night's episode? (Also, since I'm in the UK, is the advert based on something? Youtube is not being helpful.) I loved Kyle constantly seeking Stan's approval and the interaction between Craig and Cylde was fantastic. So blunt.**


	7. Chapter 6

Kyle and I are in the my dad's car, driving to the drop-off point – an old church. I'm still reeling from the revelation, a hundred and ten questions flitting around my head. How serious are they? How long have they been together? Is there any hope for me, or should I just get over him? Should I admit that I've got the hots for him?

I told him he didn't need to come with me. He argued against going home, saying that I might need him. My counter-argument that he might be killed was dismissed. For someone so intent on coming along and positive it would be safe, he's very quiet in the car now. He's not taken his eyes off the car window the whole journey. The only words to cross his lips have been directions.

So many questions and only one answer: I can't lose Kyle. I don't really understand it, but just thinking about him tugs my heart in ways I've never felt before. I'll meet other guys I can date, but I've never gotten along as well with anyone immediately like I have with Kyle.

"Hey, dude?" I say, my heart pounding. "I'm guessing you've probably got plans for tonight-"

"No," he replies, instantly.

"Really?" Why am I questioning this stroke of luck? I hurriedly continue before he can change his mind. "Awesome. Want to hang out at mine if we survive? Mom'd love to have you over for dinner, I'm sure."

"That'd be great," Kyle breathes, grinning at me. "Except...do you know what you're having for dinner?"

"No idea. You got allergies or something?"

"Dude. My surname is Broflovski."

"I know that!" I say, indignant. "...What's your point?"

"I'm Jewish."

"Oh, right. We could always order pizza if Mom is making something non-kosher."

"Great. I'll text my mom to say I won't be back 'til later after we get out of the den. Speaking of which, you need to pull over here."

"Here?" I peer at our surroundings, then back at Kyle. "You're sure?"

"Yeah. It's weird, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

I do as commanded and we exit onto the surprisingly suburban and respectable street. I was expecting the church to be in a dilapidated area, graffitied and stained glass windows broken. This street has white picket fences, for Christ's sake. The only shop is an upmarket organic grocers. Kyle and I double check the address just to be absolutely positive, and start walking down the path to the church – a very Gothic and ornate building.

"Think maybe this is a trap?" I whisper to Kyle, who shrugs and inches closer to me.

"Do we have much of a choice?"

"Guess not." We stop outside the towering oak doors. Kyle is grimacing at something – I inspect the door more closely and discover that what I thought was just a weirdly placed crucifix is actually a door knocker. "Maybe we are in the right place, after all."

Kyle nods, still staring with unconcealed disgust at the tacky thing, and I use it to try and summon the church's inhabitants. It's not the sort of place I want to charge into unannounced. I've been shot at enough for one day. We wait in silence for a minute. Figuring that the first knock went unheard, I raise my hand to knock again, only to have the door suddenly open on me. I shove my hand down again and try to manage a smile for the priest who's come to the door.

"Sorry, Father, I think maybe I've got the wrong place after all-"

"Nonsense," he booms, throwing the door open wide and gesticulating for Kyle and I to come inside. We awkwardly step into the alcove and he shuts the door behind us. "Two young lads like yourselves have absolutely come to the right place."

He opens the next set of doors and, at last, I'm sure we're in the right place. Where pews once were there are now all kinds of kinky contraptions – cages, swings, dangling chains. Up in the pulpit, a man tied to a cross is having red welts lashed into his flesh by a dominatrix. A woman dressed in scraps of black leather, barely enough to make a rein for a horse, strides up to us.

"You two looking for a good time?" she purrs. I shake my head forcefully.

"N-no," I stammer. "We're here to, uh, make a payment."

"You can just hand the money to me," she says, holding out a hand with talon-like nails. Kyle crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head.

"No. We want to see the head of this organisation and we want a receipt. We're not dumb."

The woman stalks away, her hips swaying, whilst the Father stares at us.

"Are you going to try and claim a tax refund or something?"

The woman in leather returns in a moment. She summons us with a waggle of a finger. We follow, Kyle striding confidently whilst I inch along behind him, tearing my eyes from the rocking confessional booth only to catch a horrific glimpse of people playing the filthy kind of watersports in the font. I'm pretty sure I've completely destroyed my immortal soul just by entering this place.

"How can you be so relaxed about this?" I hiss in his ear. "Do you and Craig routinely visit brothels or something?"

"It's South Park," he whispers back. "I'm just glad there are no animals involved."

We're brought into a very opulent room, with a glistening chandelier, made for a much larger room, which brushes my hair as I walk under it. The woman who killed Kenny sits behind a diamond studded desk – or maybe it's cubic zirconia. I'm no expert. She's stripped down even further – apparently, here nudity signifies authority – wearing only nipple pasties, a thong and a fedora.

"Hello, gentlemen," she drawls, her voice low. "So pleased you could join us tonight." She waves a hand, with bare fingers but jewels embedded in her nails, at the seats before her. "Please, take a pew."

Kyle takes a seat and leans forward. I quickly sit down beside him, not nearly as an anxious to negotiate. The guns on the wall probably aren't decorative, despite the glittering jewels embedded in the handles.

"We're only handing over the cash if you draw up a contract saying you'll never contact Stan again," Kyle demands, jabbing the desk with his index finger.

"Such a thing will have no legal standing," she retorts. "Besides, we've come up with another offer." She turns to me, smiling winningly. "We would like to include you in our stable."

I straighten up, bristling. "What?"

"We'd like to offer you as the newest ride at our little theme park. We'd split the earnings fifty-fifty. It's an amazing offer. "

"I'm sure it is, but I'm really not interested."

"Are you sure?" she persists, curling a strand of hair around her finger. "You could retire before you're thirty."

"Don't do it," Kyle urges me, shaking my arm. "It's not worth it, Stan!"

Like I need telling that. "Yeah, I'd really rather not be a prostitute. Can we give you the money and go now?"

"As if you could really afford to-" Her bragging is cut short by Kyle slamming the wad of cash down before her. She swipes it up and deftly counts it, her eyes widening. "Oh. But are you sure you wouldn't be happier working for us?"

"He's very sure," Kyle snaps, dragging me out of my seat towards the door. He pulls me out of the church of ill repute and storms over to my car. I open it up and he gets in wordlessly. As soon as the car doors shut, though, he turns on me.

"Can you believe that? How they-" His rant is broken off by my laughter. I'm doubled over, draped over the steering wheel.

"You mean how I've had two people demand to pimp me out today? Despite my many years of managing to not be seen as a potential whore? Yeah, I can. Because it's South Park." Kyle's scowl ebbs away, slowly melting into a smile.

"You're right. Is it still okay for me to go back to yours?"

"Sure, if your parents are cool with it."

"Mom adores you. It'll be fine." I start driving and Kyle rings his mom. "Hey, Mom. I'm going to Stan's for dinner – he invited me – what do you mean, you're going out for a girls' night? We'll eat with Stan's dad, then – oh. Right. Yeah, we can get a takeaway."

I shoot him a quizzical look as he pockets the phone.

"Turns out our parents are going out together tonight, so we can do whatever."

"Let's go to yours, then. Your brother is less likely to try to kill us than my sister."

"She can't be that bad."

"You'll learn."

Kyle fidgets in his seat, matting his fingers together and looking out of the window awkwardly. I slow down as we approach his house. He seizes my arm.

"Let's leave the car at yours."

"Why? We'll have to walk back in the cold."

"Craig doesn't like you."

"No, really?" I say, but I press the accelerator and head towards my house. "He was so subtle about it."

"Yeah, I know. He'll be even less subtle if he sees your car."

"Dad's car. Would I get some stylish key engravings on it?"

"I don't know. He's never hated anyone like this."

"Not even Cartman?" Kyle muses on this for a moment, tapping his nose thoughtfully and gazing at the ceiling.

"Not sure. He hates you differently."

I resist the urge to ask if Craig would hate me more if he found out Kyle snuck me into his house on a Saturday night. I really don't want Kyle to take back the invitation. I park the car at mine and, bracing myself, step out into the cold evening air. Kyle waits for me on the sidewalk, seemingly unaffected by the chilliness, red curls swaying around his face in the wind. He chuckles as I pull my coat tighter around me.

"Does little Stan need to go grab his mittens?" he teases. I swot his arm and we start walking. Kyle's pace is barely a walk, his legs constantly threatening to break into a jog.

"Now who's desperate to get out of the cold?"

"It's not that." He looks around furtively, grabs my wrist and practically runs until the end of the block. We stop, wheezing, around the corner.

"Craig's house?" I guess. He nods, not looking me in the eye.

"I just don't want to argue about it."

"I don't mind if your boyfriend is a jealous freak." He punches me on the arm, lighter than I probably deserve.

"Not with you, dumbass. Him."

"That's fine. I don't mind being your dirty little secret."

"Stan!" he protests perfunctorily, as we start walking again. He brushes his hand through his hair, trying to create a barrier between us, but he can't quite hide his smile.

"You can add me to your little black book. With all your other boytoys."

"Yeah, right. Are you going to charge me by the time or by the hour?"

"It'd be free for you, baby." I force a laugh, trying to keep up the illusion that I'm just his friend, that I've never seriously contemplated the many ways I want to screw him. He joins in, but his laugh has more life, more strength to it. He unlocks the front door and pulls me inside, slamming the door shut behind us.

"We're alone now," he says, fluttering his eyelashes at me.

"No, you're not." Kyle jumps and spins around. I creak my head around him and see his little brother sitting on the staircase, studying a takeaway menu. "Hi, Kyle. Hi, Craig. I'll get out of your way once you've placed the food order."

"It isn't like that!" I protest. Ike peeks over the menu and smiles at Kyle.

"Oh, sorry. Hi, not-Craig."

"Stan has a name!" Kyle insists, striding over and grabbing the menu off Ike.

"Yeah, and it's not Craig."

"City Wok? Seriously?" Kyle asks, derisively. Ike nods, calmly.

"They give you enough for leftovers the next day."

"Will it get you away from us if I order from them?"

"Brother dearest, I would never intrude on your private time." He flinches at an expression I'm shielded from. "Yeah, I've got some journals to read."

He flees as soon as he's told Kyle what he wants to eat. Kyle turns back to me, a vision of sweetness and light, previous rage evaporated. We peruse the menu together, Kyle making recommendations and warning me against certain dishes. The order placed, we settle down in the living room to make sure we don't miss the doorbell. Sitting cosily on the sofa, we flick through TV channels before settling on an atrocious horror movie, whose gore budget apparently only stretched to free packets of ketchup from McDonalds. It's filled with lines so cheesy they pretty much mock themselves, allowing me to appear witty with ease. Kyle's commentary is considerably more high brow, critiquing the biology ("Blood doesn't spurt like that from that position), the logic ("They should have really replaced the stairs with a pulley system rather than putting a chair in front of the door") and the realism of the orgasms ("Like anyone's good enough to get a guy off with three seconds of head").

The doorbell rings. As the unmistakeable smell of Chinese takeout wafts through the house, I realise how ravenous I am. Ike grabs his food and steals away back upstairs. Kyle and I see the film through to its predictable ending as we scoff our food, swapping bites of each other's dishes. His phone rings, but it's ignored yet again.

"I wanted to hang out with you before," Kyle blurts out, wriggling in his seat.

"You mean last night?" I ask, leaning back and trying to play it cool.

"Yeah, but not just then. In class and after school."

"So why didn't you say-" I stop, and look at him. "Not Craig." He squirms.

"Yeah. He kept dragging me away," he confesses.

"You know you can tell him to get fucked, right?" Kyle rolls his eyes.

"Remember the part where he's my boyfriend?"

"No reason to be a dick." Actually, I keep trying to forget that part, and Ike's behaviour earlier is just enabling me.

"My point is that he'd take that as an invitation. Or dump me."

"So? You could find someone new like that," I say, with a snap of my fingers. That's probably inaccurate, since I'm pretty sure I could pounce on him faster than the speed of sound, but that's an experiment that'll have to wait, probably until twenty-never.

"We're just going through a rough patch," Kyle says, then sighs, slumping in his seat.

"Sorry, dude." I pat his arm and he pulls me into a hug. I wrap my arms around him and silently thank Craig for being a dick, then berate myself for gaining enjoyment from Kyle's suffering. He wriggles closer to me, the tips of his frizzy hair tickling my cheek. "You want to do something to take your mind off it?"

"Let's go play Rock Band," says Kyle, slipping out of my hold. I follow him to his room, hurriedly tearing my gaze from Kyle's ass when we pass Ike's open bedroom door. It doesn't stop the kid from giving me a lecherous wink. "Stan, are you all right?" Kyle asks, his hand on his door knob. Ike is suddenly very involved in his book.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I claim, running a hand through my hair. Kyle lets me inside and starts setting up the game.

"What do you play?"

"Guitar and vocals are my favourite, but I'll do anything." Kyle kicks the door shut to block out the sound of sniggering emanating from Ike's room, then resumes setting up the game.

"You want to multi-task?"

"Sure."

He passes me the guitar and sets up the mic stand. I adjust it to my height – not that it needs much adjusting, despite Kyle being a couple of inches shorter than me – and tap the guitar buttons experimentally. Some controllers you need to press pretty firmly to be sure of getting a result, but this wasn't one of them. Kyle brings up the song selection menu and pauses.

"Which do you want to play?"

"I don't know. You pick."

"You're the guest. You have to pick. It's the top rule in hosting etiquette," Kyle insists.

"God, I don't know. Random selection?"

"If that's what you want."

We allow the game to roll the dice of fate and the game starts loading. The loading screen disappears faster than it does on my machine – clearly, Kyle has mastered some technical wizardry kept secret from us mere mortals. I can't help but groan as the name of the song flashes on screen and the opening bars play.

"What, you're not thrilled about pretending to be Bon Jovi?"

"I don't think my hair's fabulous enough." Worse than that, though, is that it's a love song. Love songs are just too soppy and saccharine and, more importantly, will not make me look cool in the eyes of others. I'd rather sing about drowning baby rabbits in acid than croon about my heart aches in front of Kyle.

"Just shove a finger in a power socket. I think your lack of denim is a greater obstacle."

I'm prevented from continuing the banter by the lyrics appearing on screen. I'm tempted to give an over the top performance to defuse the potential awkwardness, but I want to ace the song to impress Kyle more. He's damn good on bass, managing to keep to the rhythm and stay on track during the long lines of consecutive notes. He whistles admiringly at the performance stats presented at the song's close.

"Dude, you're awesome at this."

"So are you," I say, truthfully. Kyle has a much higher tolerance for the bass than I can ever muster and has only slipped up once or twice, judging by his score. What I hoped would be a circlejerk of us telling each other how great we are is cut short by the next song starting. It's clear that the game is against me tonight – another mushy love song, a Britney Spears brand turd.

"Oh, no no no."

"We should pause the game and put your hair into pigtails for this one," says Kyle. "Tie your shirt up, too."

"Why don't you get me into a plaid skirt whilst you're at it?"

"Are you suggesting I have one?" he retorts. The possibility hadn't occurred to me before now, but it's a rather enticing mental image. So much so that I only realise I should be playing the guitar when Kyle says, "Stan? You remember what those brightly coloured things flying towards you are, right?"

"Oh, shit," I mumble, trying to catch up with the notes. Since I'm not well practised with the song (it shouldn't even be in a Rock Band game, dammit), it's a struggle to follow both the lyrics and notes simultaneously. I make do with humming the song roughly in tune whilst I adjust to the speed and pattern of the notes, but every time I glance up to check the lyrics out more carefully I lose my place. I can usually manage okay, even when I've not heard the song before, but I'm usually not trying to impress anyone. "Shit shit shiiiit," I intone, managing to hit the vocal notes nicely. Kyle's concern has turned to amusement, and I seize the opportunity. "Shit shit crap shit craaaap!" I trill, relishing the ensuing roar of laughter.

Using that unorthodox method I make it to the end of the song, dignity tattered and bruised but still pleased with myself. Kyle's totally kicked my ass at this song, but I'm pretty sure it won't be held against me. The new song starts – another damn love song (what are the odds, seriously?) - but I outwit the game by quickly plonking the microphone in front of Kyle.

"What?" he protests, trying to nudge it back to me with his foot whilst playing the bass. "No, I hate singing!"

"I had to sing Britney and Bon Jovi and you can't handle one little song?" I tease, pressing my foot firmly on the microphone stand and holding it in place before Kyle.

"But-"

"Do it!"

With a defeated sigh, Kyle begins to sing. His voice sounds nothing like the original singer's, quavers a little when holding a note and when attempting the higher parts, the enunciation isn't always clear and he's singing a little quietly. It's the best I've ever heard the song sung. He breathes a long sigh of relief, close enough to orgasmic to make me stir in my pants, once the song's over and thrusts the microphone back at me.

"I did it," he says. "Never again."

"But you were great!" Kyle looks sceptically at the TV screen and the score displayed, then back to me. "That just judges how much you sound like the original. You sounded really good in your own way."

"Whatever. You're doing the rest of the singing."

We play for hours, obliterating all other records from the scoreboard – much to my delight, knowing I've most likely ousted Craig. We're stopped only by a knock at the door and a troubled Ike peeking in.

"Mom and Dad aren't back yet," he says. "They're not answering their phones, either."

"I'll try my parents," I reassure him. There's no answer from either of their phones and Ike's face falls both times as I shake my head at the lack of response.

"Maybe they've gone to your place," Kyle suggests. I try my home phone line. It rings and keeps ringing. Just as I think it's a bust too, there's a click of the phone being released from the hook.

"Hello?" Shelly says. She sounds grouchy, but what else is new?

"It's me. Have Mom and Dad come back yet?"

"Turd, you got me out of bed for this?" Shelly yells. "I've got to be at work for half eight tomorrow morning!"

"It's not that late-" I say, then glance at my watch. In four minutes, it'll be three in the morning. "Shit, sorry Shell, I really didn't realise-"

"Fucking turd! Just because you can laze in bed all day-"

"I will not! I'm going dog walking at eight!"

"Oh, really?" she asks, her voice suddenly sweet. I don't know what she's planning, but it'll probably stop me getting any sleep.

"Are they there?" I ask, resigned to whatever fate she has in store.

"No, they are not. Now fuck off and let me sleep!"

I hang up. Kyle, who was sat close enough to hear most of the conversation, looks startled. Guess he's going to be re-evaluating his stance on my sister's disposition. Ike's biting his thumbnail, his eyes big and worried.

"They're not there, but I'm sure they're fine," I try to tell him, but he doesn't look convinced. "My dad's probably just done some dumb shit and they're trying to get him out of trouble."

"Like gotten them kidnapped?" Ike squeaks.

"More like started a fight with a lamp post after drinking too much. They'll probably be taking him to the hospital or something. I'm more worried about what'll happen to me now Shelly's pissed." I stand up with a groan. I really don't want to go back.

"Won't she have gone back to bed?" Kyle asks.

"Not before drenching all the bedsheets to stop me getting to sleep, she won't."

"And you have to be up early?"

"Yeah, I'm walking some dogs for the rescue place before football practice." I shrug. "I can probably manage on the couch or something-"

"No!" Kyle protests. "You should stay here."

"Kyle, do I need to remind you that our parents are missing? We should ring the police or go and find them!" Ike complains.

"Oh, no," I interject. "You don't want to do that if my dad's drunk. It'll scar your innocent young mind."

"I'll go find a sleeping bag," Kyle decides, getting up. "Ike, go to bed. The police won't be willing to look for them yet. We'll ring them in the morning if they've still not turned up."

"Fine," Ike mumbles, shuffling out of the room. Once in the safety of the hallway, he calls out again. "Don't think I don't know that you're doing this for concupiscent reasons!"

"Am not!" Kyle yells, dashing out after him, but Ike's slammed his bedroom door shut. I'm kind of ashamed that a kid has a better vocabulary than I do, but I'm mostly shamefully excited about staying over at Kyle's. I slip a dictionary off Kyle's well-stocked bookshelves and try to look up the word. I'd have a little more luck if I could remember exactly what it was. I'm pretty sure it started with con, but so do a lot of words.

"What are you doing?" Kyle asks, suddenly appearing in the doorway with a blue sleeping bag slung over his shoulder and a hand on his hip. I drop the dictionary.

"Oh, er..." I sigh and shrug in defeat. "I don't actually know what that word your kid brother used means, so I was looking it up." Kyle clicks the door shut and grins at me.

"To be honest, I don't know either. Let's not let him know that, though."

"Really? You don't even know?" Kyle's top of pretty much everything and has let more than a few multisyllabic words drop in my presence. He shakes his head and pops the dictionary safely away.

"Not a clue," he says, cheerfully.

"Thanks for letting me sleep over. I'm really not looking forward to facing Shelly," I confess. He shrugs and lays down the sleeping bag.

"Not a problem. I guess you'll want to get to sleep since you've got to be up so early?"

"I guess." Except there's something I'd much rather be doing. (Spoiler: it's Kyle.)

"Want to borrow some pyjamas?"

"Sure." He pulls some out of a drawer and tosses them to me, then pulls some out for himself.

"I'll go to the bathroom to change," he says, then disappears. Damn. I change quickly, relishing how the clothes smell so amazingly Kyleish, then hop into the sleeping bag. Kyle returns and I'm immediately drawn to the fact that his sleepwear involves shorts. Short shorts. I pray to whatever deity might be listening that he turns around or bends down in front of me whilst wearing them.

"What are you doing in there?" he asks, laughing. "You're a guest. I'm not making you sleep on the floor."

"Dude, I can't take your bed," I tell him, but my heart is melting. He's such a damn sweetheart.

"If Ike hadn't gotten worried, you wouldn't have had to stay over in the first place. You deserve a good night's rest before getting up at the crack of dawn."

As tempting as sleeping in Kyle's bed is, I can't help but feel like I'd be taking advantage of his generosity. I wriggle deeper into the sleeping bag, not willing to be out-niced, and shake my head. Not that Kyle can see, since I'm so far down inside, but never mind.

"I'm staying here."

"You are not. Get out of there."

"Make me." The floor disappears beneath me and the sleeping bag, with me inside, is dropped onto the bed. I crawl out to find Kyle standing over the bed, looking pleased with himself.

"There, now you have the sleeping bed and the bag." He sighs dramatically. "Guess I'll go sleep on the couch or something..."

I roll over in the bag until I'm parallel to the wall, then wave a hand over the remaining space on the double bed with a satisfied smirk. He plainly wasn't expecting that.

"You still get to have the bed. Ha!"

"What if you roll over and smother me with the sleeping bag in the night?"

"I don't move about in my sleep." I think I don't, anyway. I've never had anyone check on this fact for me.

"You're also trusting that I don't snore or kick in my sleep."

"I'll survive. Get in."

He climbs in hesitantly. The moment he's lying down, I roll over to cover him with the sleeping bag. He flails his arms, trying to push me away. I roll back to the wall, laughing. Kyle gasps for breath, his face red. My cheeky grin is quickly wiped away by a pillow to the face. I pick it up, climbing out of the bag, and whack Kyle back. He seizes another off the bed and we trade blows, trying to block hits and duck around each other's defensive measures. I'm soon forced to face the fact that I picked a bad opponent: Kyle is an expert in wriggling out of harm's way, ducking to and fro before slamming the pillow down hard on my head.

"You win!" I concede, holding my pillow around my head protectively. "I quit!"

"Good." He slips under the covers again. "Night, Stan." I climb back into the sleeping bag.

"Night, Kyle."

Not that I know how I'll get to sleep. I want to keep talking, keep playing and the concept of tiredness seems to have been wiped from my brain. I wriggle into a sleeping position, one eye still peeking at Kyle, who quickly shuts his and turns away.

* * *

><p>Sorry for the delay in getting this done, folks – I went away for a bit and came home to be infected with a cold. Thanks again for the great reviews – Llama, glad to hear I inspired you to bake! Not that I've used cream of tartar either time I made snickerdoodles... Oops.<p> 


	8. Chapter 7

No matter what sound an alarm clock is, it invariably becomes the worst sound known to man when it wrenches you from sleeping. Usually I just wave an arm around until I hit my phone and switch the noise off. Today, that strategy did not work. My phone alarm is off, but the beautiful redhead beside me does not look amused. It wasn't the phone I hit, but Kyle, and apparently with considerable force.

"Sorry," I mumble.

"For future reference, I'm not into that this early in the morning," he tells me, then flops back onto the bed.

"Into what?" No response. I lay my hand lightly on his arm. "Kyle?" He's already asleep. I climb over him carefully and start changing deftly. There's little I wouldn't do for a strong cup of coffee right now, but I've already risked my friendship with Kyle enough this morning. I tiptoe down the stairs, trying not to wake anyone. I'm just about to push the front door open when there's a thunderous noise crashing down the stairs. It's Kyle, his sexily tousled and still in those scandalously short pyjamas – but this time sporting an early morning bulge.

"Do you want some breakfast?" he asks, breathlessly.

"You are a fucking god," I reply.

Kyle proves his superiority to mere mortals like myself by whipping up what he calls a simple omelette and what I call delicious. It's filled with baked goat's cheese, drizzled with balsamic vinegar and topped with some fresh chopped strawberries. It's enough to make up for the disappointment of Kyle wearing an apron and hiding his shorts from the front. I wash it down with coffee, also provided by my saviour, and announce to Kyle that I want his hand in marriage. He stays faithful to that ungrateful bastard Craig and just smiles in response.

"Stan, can you do me a favour?" he asks. I'd like to say that he batted his luscious lashes at me, but he abysmally failed in that regard.

"Anything," I tell him.

"Don't tell anyone that we hung out last night or that you slept over," he blurts out, deflating my hopes. "Especially don't tell anyone that you slept over. Please."

"What if my parents ask where I've gone?"

"Say you were at someone else's. Please?"

I can't refuse those eyes, so I find myself agreeing. Kyle slumps forward with relief.

* * *

><p>"All right, you black assholes, we have to get to work," Eric snaps at us. It's distinctly unfair, as Butters, Kenny and I have been batting suggestions between each other for an hour before Eric even dragged his lazy ass over here, to a meeting he called and insisted we held straight to after football practice, but that's irrelevant. I'm sleep-deprived, exhausted from walking dogs and I can't stop thinking about Kyle and how he's damnably taken. I give him the stink-eye, but he doesn't notice. Asshole.<p>

"We could groom people's pets!" Butters pipes up. I groan.

"I'd rather not be ripped to shreds. I still think we should make keychains. Everyone needs those."

"No, we should do a naked calendar!" Kenny insists. Big fucking surprise.

"But there are only four of us," I remind him. He slams the palm of his hand against his forehead and sticks his tongue out at me.

"Which is why we rope some other people into helping out."

"Like Kyle and his friends, you mean?" I ask, perking up.

"Like hot girls, dumbass."

"I don't think they'll want to get naked just for a class trip."

"I don't want to get naked for a class trip," says Butters.

"You'll get naked if we damn well want you to, Butters," says Eric.

"Lay off him," I tell him. I rub my head. It's hard enough to stay awake, let alone think up good ideas. We need some motivating music. I put some upbeat tunes on and immediately feel a lot more positive about the whole project. Sure, I'm in a team with a lazy racist, a stoner pervert and a kid whose two shoes are overflowing with goodness, but so what? We'll manage something.

"The fuck is this crap, hippie?" Eric demands, jamming his hands over his ears.

"It's called music. You dance to it." I get up and sway in rhythm to the music, swirling my arms around me. Seeing the distaste on Eric's face, I pull a few more complicated moves. Want to know a secret? I fucking love choreography. I can sit for hours admiring complicated routines – and then I root out videos on how to do the best ones on Youtube.

One of the songs I played with Kyle last night comes on. I've heard it a hundred times but now I've got new and better (and way hotter) associations with it. I forget that I'm dancing in the middle of the day in my bedroom, whilst my new friends sit around me on the floor. I completely let go, shaking it in a borderline pornographic manner, visualising myself dancing with Kyle and driving him wild with lust. Up jumps Kenny, breaking my daydream, whooping with delight.

"Fuck, dude, share the sweet moves!" he demands, copying me. At which point my confidence completely falters and I stop awkwardly. Kenny punches me. "Keep dancing! Do that thrust thing again!"

He tries to imitate it, jutting too far forward and almost whacking Butters in the face with his crotch. Butters buries his head in his knees and whimpers as I demonstrate the actual move to Kenny in a way less likely to lead to injury for him or bystanders. Eric's on his feet, silently copying us but frequently glancing away. I don't know who he thinks he's fooling.

"This must really impress the chicks," Kenny says, once the first move has been mastered and I'm teaching him how to move on the dancefloor instead of just shifting from foot to foot.

"Does it?" Eric asks, revealing the source of his interest at last.

"Totally," I tell them, even though I've actually no idea. This is the first time I've danced properly in front of an audience. I didn't think even my quarterback status could protect me from the backlash brought on by dancing around like a music video extra.

* * *

><p>When I get back home, my parents still haven't reappeared. Shelly's also absent, but a quick inspection of my room shows that she's torn the sheets from my bed and dumped all the bed linen in the house in the bath. I put a load of laundry in the dryer and ring Kyle. He doesn't pick up.<p>

The doorbell rings and I jog over to answer it. Ike stands there, looking smaller than usual in a baggy hoodie that conceals his hands. He takes one look at me and sags.

"My parents aren't here, are they?" he asks. I shake my head, confirming what he already knows.

"How did you know where I live?"

"How many houses have been for sale and just bought?" he asks, with an annoyed click of his tongue.

"Oh, yeah. Want to come in?"

"Sure," he says, stepping in with his head still bowed. "Not like there's anything for me at home."

"Isn't Kyle there?"

"He went off with Craig." My heart sinks and my desire to be a host shrivels up. Still, I can't leave Ike like this. I lead him to the living room. He slumps in front of the television and I go grab some snacks from the kitchen. He perks up when he catches sight of the tray laden with chips and cookies and snatches it from my hands. "Yay, cookies!" I sit down beside him and check out what's on.

"Sweet, Terrence and Philip."

"See, you're a good guy," Ike says, through a mouth full of cookie. "You like good things, like the finest in Canadian comedy. Whereas Craig is a dick who will watch shitty anime about cars all day. And has never given me cookies, by the way."

"What are you-" My phone rings, cutting me off. I check the caller – it's Dad. About fucking time.

"Where the hell are you? Are Kyle's parents with you?"

"Staaaan, we had the most awesome drunken adventure ever!" he slurs at me. "It made the Hangover series look like-like the soberover series!"

"Where the hell are you?" I repeat, deciding to take the conversation slower.

"We were in Vegas, baby! Woooooo!" I pull the phone away from my ear to prevent permanent damage being dealt. When my dad's finished hollering, I put it back to my head again.

"And now?"

"Aw, Staaaaaan," my dad whines. "Why you got to be such a buzzkill, son? Aren't you curious about what awesome things we've been up to?"

"Not really, no."

"But we got taken hostage in a casino and-" Ike, who's been listening in, looks alarmed at this, but I just shake my head and roll my eyes.

"Sure you did," I reply. "Now: where the hell are you?"

"At an airport," he replies, sullenly. I don't bother pestering him for more specification, and instead move on to the topic that Ike is anxiously awaiting a response to.

"Are Kyle's parents there?"

He sighs dramatically. "Yeah, they're here too. Can we get back to my awesome story now?"

"Nope. Will you be back this evening?"

"Yes. God, Stan, why are you so boring-" I hang up.

"They got taken hostage?" Ike blurts out, a half eaten cookie still raised halfway to his mouth. "Are they okay?"

"It's probably a cover story," I assure him. "Or they got taken hostage by the casino guards, who didn't like my dad being drunk and disorderly."

"You seem really...unfazed by that," Ike says, taking a bite out of the cookie at last.

"My dad does dumb shit all the time," I explain. Ike nods, grabs another couple of cookies, and stands up.

"I think I'll get home, then. Sorry to bother you for nothing."

"No problem. Want a bag for those cookies? Maybe a couple more?" Ike grins and nods vigorously. I grab a resealable bag from the kitchen and pop some cookies inside before handing it to Ike.

"Man, you're awesome," he chirps. "Mom is going to seriously love you."

* * *

><p>Somehow, Eric's got hold of the keys to the school gym. He proudly shoved them under my nose when I bumped into him in the crowded corridor, innocently trying to get to the cafeteria. He had other ideas and wrenched my arm almost out of its socket, pulling me down to the gym and demonstrating the power of his keys. I thought that was it, but suddenly his hand is against my back and I'm shoved into the room.<p>

"Eric? This isn't the cafeteria," I remind him. "That's where you're supposed to go at lunch time. It's so you can eat."

Butters ambles in, pausing only to pin something on the doors, then salutes Eric. "All the posters have been put up!"

"Posters? What posters?" I ask. Kenny jogs in, his noise of his torn sneakers echoing around the gym. The white plastic bag he's clutching is quickly torn from his hands and Eric rummages around it, grabs a well-wrapped package, then chucks it back to him. "Hello? Why have I been abducted to the gym?"

"We're going to teach people to dance!" Butters explains.

"We are?" I do not like where this is heading.

"You are," says Eric, confirming my worst fears. He unwraps the package to reveal a thick sandwich and bites into it. Butters sets up a table and chair by the door whilst Kenny draws a CD player from his backpack. As I'm about to argue, the room is invaded by Craig and Clyde. "The fuck do you two assholes want?"

"You can't do dance lessons here," Craig says, his arms crossed over his chest. "You haven't got permission."

"More like your face doesn't have permission!"

"That doesn't even make sense."

"Besides, who'd want you guys to teach them to dance?" Clyde asks. His point is immediately undermined by a couple of girls nervously peering into the gym and entering hesitantly. Butters takes their money in exchange for two tickets – which suggests a level of organisation I've not been privy to.

"Chicks totally want to dance with us," Eric boasts. "And we're going to kick your asses so hard they come out of your mouths."

"That's physically impossible," says Craig, watching with disgust as more students filter into the hall.

I sidle up to Eric, who's rubbing his hands with glee as more cash is put into Butter's little lunch box. I want to know what the fuck he's planning and what he's going to do when I bail. There's no chance of me flaunting my dancing skills in my second week at a new school, not when I've got such a big secret to protect. Sure, Eric seems fine with my dancing abilities, but the rest of the football team could easily get suspicious. Then I would get pulverised, which I would really like to avoid.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he snaps. I jump, feelings of guilt shooting through me. Was I getting too close or something? Was Butters right when he said he had psychic powers? "Get out of here!"

Turns out he's just yelling at Craig and Clyde, who are setting up tables in the other end of the hall and have opened up another set of doors. Craig smirks more than someone holding several chairs ought to and starts setting them down. Token's arrived, clutching reams of paper and scissors, and sits down and starts cutting stuff out.

"If you can invade the gym, so can we," Craig tells Eric. "So we are doing."

"You're profiteering off my hard work!" Eric screeches, stamping his feet. I glance down at the worn floorboards with concern.

"So go report us to a teacher. Oh, wait, you stole the keys and you'd just get into trouble."

Figuring this is as good a time as ever, I tap Eric on the shoulder. He shudders and doesn't turn around. "I bet your thing is going to suck, anyway!"

"Eric-" I say.

"Our thing is going to be amazing." Whatever it is, it's attracted a fair few students, who are already lining up. Token is still cutting things out, making four neat little piles. Three of their four seats behind the tables are occupied – the ones in front must be for the customers. The final one must be for Kyle, the last person I want to make a fool of myself in front of. But how am I going to smoothly teaching a group of – I check the number of people standing patiently over at our side of the hall and wince – a group of at least fifty people who to dance without any preparation whatsoever?

"I'm not fucking doing this."

You'd think those were my words but no, I'm being too much of a pussy. That's Kyle, bursting dramatically into the gym and leaning over Craig's table. It's giving me a fantastic view of his ass.

"You are so," says Craig, not looking up from the pieces of paper Token's passed him.

"I'm not. It's unethical and abhorrent. Why don't we just whore ourselves out whilst we're at it?"

"What's unethical about forewarning people about what's in store?" Token asks, more to the suddenly uncertain crowd than to Kyle, who's not looking away from Craig.

"Ha! Craig can't even keep his bitch whipped!" Eric laughs. Kyle and Craig flip him off simultaneously, Kyle not even bothering to turn around to do so.

"I won't do it," Kyle hisses.

"You want to leave the group?" Clyde asks him. Craig leans back in his chair, surveying Kyle.

"Do you?" he asks. There's a tense silence, broken only by-

"This is priceless!" Eric cackles, laughing hysterically and finally noticing my presence by using me as a support.

"I'm sure your dance routines are going to suck ass, Cartman!" Kyle yells. "What are you going to do, teach everyone Barney the Dinosaur moves?"

"Not me," Eric says, ruffling my hair. "Stan here is hot shit at dancing."

"You are?" Kyle asks me.

"You are?" Craig echoes, lurching forward in his seat. I shrug demurely, but Eric's got our promotional duties covered.

"Stan is pant-wettingly hot at dancing," he boasts.

"Kyle, are you staying or not?" Token asks, rubbing his wrist. "If not, I'd like to know so I can stop cutting these cards out."

"I'm staying," he says, taking his eyes off me and moving to the last seat. "But I'm doing something else." He scrawls on a piece of paper and tacks it to the front of his table. It reads: 'Homework advice - $1'. He looks challengingly at Craig, who has gone back to shuffling his paper cards.

"We'd better get started," I say, going to switch the CD player on. My ears are suddenly assaulted with some guy yelling about how much he really loves girly bits. Kenny gets grooving to it immediately, but I jam the next button before he can really get going. Not that it's a great deterrent, since the next song is equally explicit. As if raiding the school gym wasn't risky enough. I tap the next button again and again, with similar results each time. "Do we have another CD?"

"This CD is amazing!" Kenny protests.

"I have a CD!" Butters pipes up, running over with the case outstretched towards me.

I take it gingerly but even the briefest of scans reveals that I can't play this in front of people if I want mine or Butters' dignity intact. I lean closer nonchalantly and whisper in his ear.

"Butters, this is a Disney CD."

"Yep," he announces, proudly. "And if we use this one, I can help teach some routines!"

"Maybe some other time," I tell him. Looks like we're stuck with Kenny's choices. I clap my hands over my head to attract the milling crowd's attention. A few heads turn, but the majority have become too entrenched in conversations to notice me.

"Ey! Pay attention and respect Stan's authority!" Eric yells at our customers. It works, so I can't knock it too much.

"Okay, the first thing we're going to do is just some basic movement," I say, the words tumbling from my mouth whilst my brain shuts down from the pressure. "So. So, yeah." I switch the CD player on again, wincing a little at the music, and start demonstrating what I mean. "This bit's mainly for the guys – I'll get to the girls in a moment. But what you want to be doing is stepping in beat with the music, but not staying in one place. Try copying me."

The few guys in the crowd hesitantly follow my steps and I feel it's probably time to get the majority involved. Shame I'm so much less adept at this part. "Okay, now, girls, you want to do the same sort of thing, but more...girlish." Fuck, what was Eric thinking, dragging me into this? I try to elaborate my way out of it. "You want to sway a little more when you move, especially your hips."

"Yeah, shake those hips," Kenny says, leaning over my shoulder. I pull him in front of me, grinning.

"Kenny will be the girl in this demonstration," I tell the crowd. I lie my hands on Kenny's hips and gently move them.

"Aw, no," Kenny protests, trying to wriggle away. I keep my grip steady and don't allow it. "Get Cartman or Butters to be the chick!"

"I'll take you to KFC after school," I mutter into his ear. My hands are batted away by Kenny willingly sway his hips with more force and fervour than I'd have thought possible. The girls mimic Kenny, who is suspiciously good at dancing like a girl, and I steal a glance at the other side of the gym. Kyle has his head bent, poring some freshman's paper, Craig is staring down at the cards laud down on the table, as is Clyde, but Clyde's biting his nails as he does so. Token is talking at length to a kid he's not bothering to look at, his eyes on someone dancing over on this side of the hall. At least he hasn't alerted the other guys on the football team as to what I'm up to.

"Right, chicks, now you want to shake that thing way back and forwards," says Kenny, making me jump. "And wave your hands in front of you like this as you lean backwards. Like you're sliding them up and down a big, thick pole." Great, Kenny's doing stripper training.

"Guys, you seem to have the hang of movement, so we'll do something else now," I say, trying to distance myself from Kenny. "We'll try something a bit rougher now. Watch my shoulders."

I jut one forward and shake it for a couple of beats, then the other forward and repeat the process. The song has a heavy beat, at least, and it's easy enough for my protégés to pick up quickly. Beside me, Kenny is doing some hip rippling move that winds up in a crouch. I figure it's best I release the poor girls from Kenny's tutelage.

"Okay," I say, clapping my hands to regain the group's attention. "You'll need to grab a partner for this next move-"

"What is going on here?" Mr Garrison demands, waltzing into the gym and looking around suspiciously. "What the hell are all you flabberdingers doing?"

"It was Craig's idea!" Eric yells.

"Yeah, it was all Craig," Kenny agrees. "He told us he had permission to use the gym!"

"It was not!" Craig argues, dropping the cards he was shuffling. "I just found them here and thought they had permission!"

"When Coach Pantycross finds out about this, he will be pissed," Garrison says, sipping on his coffee. "Probably make everyone here do a thousand laps after school."

"Cheese it!" Butters yells, leaping up from his stand near the door and fleeing. Our students and the clients of the other group make a mass exodus. Clyde attempts to join them, but Garrison calls him back.

"Give up, Donovan, I see you every day." Clyde sheepishly slinks back to his chair. Garrison ambles over to Butter's impromptu till (a Hello Kitty lunch box) and whistles at the contents.

"You boys have been busy."

"We did better!" says Craig, then bites his lip. Mr Garrison lifts up our cash box and goes to examine the other group's.

"How much ass did we kick, Mr Garrison?" Eric asks, flipping Craig off behind Garrison's back. "The students really seemed to respond to our innovative-"

"Can it, Eric. Really, I should have all of this confiscated as punishment, disqualify both our groups and send you all to Mexico." He rifles through the other group's takings. "But I'm willing to overlook this and even let you contribute some of the money to the trip fund."

"But you're going to take a cut," says Kyle, cupping his face in his hand.

"That's right, Kyle. I knew there was a reason you're always top in class." Garrison taps his chin. "I think about fifty dollars should be enough for a ball gag and a new set of nipple clamps."

"Actually, it's more like-"

"Shut up, Kenny!" Eric says, clamping his hands to his ears. "Mr Garrison, please never tell us those things again. I swear, I'll be good in class-"

"Hey, it's not like I'm going to be using them on your mom. Although Mackey might if he borrows them."

Eric screams, his eyelids scrunched tightly closed, but Mr Garrison doesn't appear to notice. He pockets his share of the funds, then grabs paper from the pile on Token's desk and jots something down on them both before tucking them in his pocket.

"Take what's left to the secretary. I'll be able to check if you pocketed any." He waves. "Nice doing business with you, boys. Eric, make sure coach gets the keys back before he notices they're missing."

He leaves the gym, whistling merrily. By now I'm ravenous, so I head straight to the bag of sandwiches and pull one out. Kenny does likewise and we go sit on the bleachers to eat. The sandwich is way too overloaded for my tastes – the bread is only just managing to contain the mass of contents oozing out, and none of the ingredients are salad. I struggle with each bite, trying to eat it as cleanly as possible. Eric storms over to the other group.

"This is all your fault, assholes!"

"How the hell is it our fault?" Token asks. "You stole the keys and took control of the gym without permission."

"Because we could have passed it off as a legitimate school activity, dumbass! But then you guys had to come in and ruin it!"

"As if," Kyle scoffs. "Your posters were borderline obscene. I'm surprised no teacher came down earlier."

"They were?" I ask.

"You didn't see them?"

"He didn't need to see them, Kyle!" Eric snaps.

"I bet he also doesn't know what you were telling all those freshmen girls, either!"

"He doesn't need to know, Kyle!"

"You were saying what?" I demand as menacingly as I can manage with a mouth full of sandwich. Why is it that you always need to speak just after you've taken a bite of food? It's like that everywhere. Has a waiter ever asked if your food's all right when you don't have it in your mouth right that second? Exactly.

"I was just promoting us!"

"You were telling them that the only way any of them could ever attract a boy was by learning to dance like a whore and they would die alone if they didn't take this lesson!" I choke on my sandwich. Kenny whacks me on the back, almost sending me toppling to the floor.

"Yeah, well, it's not like it worked!"

"Only because I stepped in and told them you were full of shit and hadn't had a date in years!"

"Whatever! I had a date last week!"

"You did not," Kyle says, snorting derisively. "Unless it was with a body pillow and a jar of Fluff."

"Like you've ever had a date!" Eric yells, swapping tactics.

I decide it's time to see for myself what's up with the posters, since Kyle and Eric are too entrenched in their argument to pay attention and Kenny is engrossed in his sandwich. There's an abundance of them as soon as I exit the gym – Butters must have worked quickly to get them all up at the start of the lunch period. At first glance, they look like the typical posters you see in high schools – badly designed, plagued with Comic Sans, with a goofy picture of some douche who thinks the whole school needs to see his face every two seconds. I wince as I realise that it's a photo of me cockily pointing and winking at anyone unfortunate enough to walk by. I move closer and read the text surrounding my photo:

_Ladies! Do you want to learn to shake it like Beyonce? Or do you want to be humiliated at the upcoming Winter Wonderland dance? Get your ass down to this one-off class led by hot, SINGLE new quarterback STAN MARSH! Learn the horizontal tango to prepare you for the vertical one!_

_Dudes! Did you know that dancing is the number one turn on for hos? Learn some sweet moves before your girl is whisked away by someone else who went to this class! _

And I groan, at both the content and the way it's written, and return to the gym. I can only hope people realise I had nothing to do with it, but I know that's unlikely. Everyone in the school is going to think I'm the biggest douche in the world. Eric and Kyle are still arguing, Kenny is still eating, Token and Clyde are still talking and Craig is glaring at someone other than me for a change.

"Girls can't get enough of my hot body," Eric's claiming, puffing his chest out and tapping it proudly with his fist.

"Eric," I say, but it goes unnoticed.

"I find that hard to believe, since there's so much of it!"

"Hey, Eric," I repeat.

"Whatever, it's better than your skinny ass!"

"Kyle's ass is so round and awesome. It's the rest of him that's skinny," Craig corrects him.

"Dude!" Kyle turns on Craig. "Not relevant!"

"Whatever!" Eric cries. "I don't care about the size of Kyle's ass!"

"Dammit, Cartman!" I yell. Suddenly everyone's looking at me, which sucks. Craig's smirking, pithy comment probably already waiting. "Why did you have to make the posters all about me?"

"Because you're a good commodity," he replies, with a slight shake of his head. "Like anyone would go to a dweeby dance lesson without a hook."

"Yeah, well," I flounder. "Now everyone's going to think I did it and that I've got my head stuck up my ass! Or that I was doing it to pick up girls!"

Craig laughs, making my heart race. I glance at him and he smirks back. There's no way he knows, I assure myself, and I give him the middle finger. It shakes ever so slightly, but he won't be able to tell from over there. I hope.

"Well, excuse me for giving you an awesome opportunity," Eric says, turning to Kenny and shrugging hopelessly. "God, some guys just don't appreciate the things you do for them."

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><p><strong>Again, a huuuuge thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! O-Parts, your review made me blush – it was so sweet! And if anyone has any constructive criticism to pass on, please, don't be afraid – I'm really eager to work on my writing skills.<strong>


	9. Chapter 8

**Hey, everyone! As you probably guessed: I finally updated! I didn't forget about the story, but various real-life things (mostly moving, ugh) have held up my writing. Hope this chapter was at least vaguely worth the wait! **

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><p>The bell signalling our release from school grounds has just rung, but I'm not heading out. For the first time in years, I'm going to be watching school sports rather than participating in them. It's not even a match – it's the tryouts for the basketball team, so it'll be really boring. Still, I owe Kyle one for coming to mine last week. Wendy's tagging along to keep me company, which I really appreciate. Kyle probably wouldn't be too impressed with me if I fell asleep.<p>

We take seats on the almost deserted bleachers. As with every bleachers ever, they're hard on the ass and no matter how I shift my weight, I can't get comfortable. There are a few guys milling around in the gym in front of us, limbering up with a few stretches. Any deity who can get Kyle to do some of those in front of me will have me as a lifelong believer. Wendy crosses her legs one way, then the other.

"Hey, Stan?"

"Yeah?" I ask, keeping my eyes trained on the gym doors. I want to wave at Kyle as he enters, something his dumb boyfriend isn't here to do.

"Did you really pick me to sit next to because you thought I was the cutest?"

"Nope." Damn, I probably shouldn't have admitted that. I mean, I know she's taken, but now she's going to ask why I picked her or she'll be offended. I tear my eyes from the door and yep, she's glaring at me.

"You didn't? You just wanted to mess with me?"

"Uh..." Crap. I'm no good at talking to girls like this. I'm more accustomed to the 'do you think this colour suits me' questions, not the 'why don't you think I'm pretty' ones. Not that I have answers for either, but stereotypes, man. I've lost count of how many girls thought I'd know if they were a summer or a winter. "No?"

"Then why-"

"Does it matter? I mean, you've got Bebe." That shuts her up, but only for a second. She looks around furtively before glaring at me.

"Who the hell told you that?" she hisses.

"Are you going to kill them?" I ask, trying to wriggle away from her without being too obvious.

"Almost definitely!"

"Then I really don't think-" The gym doors flap open and I spin around without thinking about it. It's not Kyle, so I turn back. "I really shouldn't tell you."

"They betrayed my trust! It was Kenny, wasn't it? He was being so obvious at the bake sale-"

"No, Kenny didn't say anything." The doors open again. Still not Kyle.

"Stan, I demand you tell me! Who was it?"

The doors swing open. I spot a familiar crop of curly red hair out of the corner of my eye. "Kyle," I breathe. I twist to give him my full attention, which he immediately unknowingly seizes with his shorts. They're tight and white and contour beautifully around his ass. They could do with being shorter in the leg, but Kyle's a criminal distraction already.

"Stan? Stan, are you paying attention?"

Wendy's hissing brings me back to my senses. I leap up and wave my hands around in the air. "Hey, Kyle!" I yell. He turns and grins at me. I give him a thumbs up, which he returns. "Good luck, dude!"

"Thanks!" he calls back.

I sit back down, grinning goofily. Kyle exchanges a few words and bro-fists with some other guys, then answers my prayers with a few stretches. The white of the fabric highlights his ass's shapeliness as he bends. Wendy giggles, although I've not seen anything funny.

"Huh?"

"It's just-" She inhales quickly. "Oh, shit. You don't like Kyle, do you?"

"Kyle's awesome," I reply at once, still admiring that ass.

"Yeah, I get that you like him, otherwise we wouldn't be here," she says, sounding annoyed. She probably looks annoyed too, but screw looking anywhere other than at Kyle. "But are you attracted to him?"

"Oh. Oh, no," I say, forcing myself to look away. "No. No, I am not."

Wendy half-smiles as she sighs, shaking her head. "Stan, you're really obvious when you stare."

"Fine," I huff, throwing my hands up dramatically. "I might have a slight interest in Kyle. But he's taken, so it's irrelevant."

"How do you know that?" she asks, taken aback. "He hasn't even told Butters and Kenny."

"He hasn't?" My stomach tingles at the thought of him already trusting me more than his oldest friends.

"No. He told you?"

"Yeah, on Saturday."

"Did you tell him you liked guys first?"

"No, he still thinks I'm straight," I admit. She frowns and jabs me in the chest. "Ow! Why'd you do that?"

"You have to tell him you're not! He trusted you!"

"But then he might tell Craig and Craig hates me enough," I explain. "He's already put a permaban on Kyle hanging out with me. If he finds out I like dick? It'll be...like, a super permaban. He might try to beat me up for existing in the same state as Kyle."

"The ban doesn't seem to be working right now."

"Nope," I reply, grinning. The coach blows his whistle and the guys crowd around him. He divides them into four teams and a fake match begins. Kyle's sitting on the sidelines for this one. I wave to him again and he waves back. Someone taps him on the shoulder and he looks away, so I turn back to Wendy. "It's okay, I'm not going to try and steal him or anything. I'm pretty happy just being his friend."

"Mhmm," Wendy says, raising an eyebrow sceptically. The bouncing of the ball reverberates in the gym, combining with the painful high squeak of sneakers to create an unpleasant backdrop for an equally unpleasant conversation.

"No, really. I don't want to start drama." She continues looking at me. I look back, innocently, then grin. "But Kenny was teasing him about wanting to screw me. I mean, if Kenny's picking up on something-"

"He's just being a pervert. Like always."

"I guess." I let out a long drawn sigh. She's right, of course. Kenny's mind has firm residency in the gutter. But it wasn't just Kenny who was teasing Kyle, was it? "Ike too! Ike seemed to think Kyle liked me."

"Ike loves to tease Kyle." Wendy pulls me into a tight hug. "It doesn't necessarily mean – oh holy shit." She draws away suddenly and smiles nervously at the basketball court.

"What?" Kyle's standing on the basketball court now, awaiting the coach's whistle. His unusually stern expression morphs into a smile as he catches my eye. I hold up a pair of crossed fingers. The whistle blows and he darts into action. If I ever play a game with the guys here, I definitely need to be on his side – though he's small, he darts around quickly on the court and expertly steals the ball from others, then ducks and sidesteps anyone who tries to take it from him. No wonder I sucked so badly in that pillow fight.

"Kyle pulled that face his mom used on us when she found out we went to Mexico," Wendy gabbles. "He pulled that face on me, Stan!"

"What were you doing in Mexico?"

"He must think I'm leading you on or something," she says, shaking her head and fanning herself with her hand. "But damn, I did not expect that face."

"Maybe he likes me. That'd be awesome."

"Except for the part where he's taken, you mean?" Wendy snaps, still looking shaken.

"Craig sucks," I declare, giving up on the argument.

"He's okay. He can be a bit abrasive-"

"He flipped me off before we even spoke!"

"Maybe he caught you checking out Kyle. You're really not subtle."

"Like that's my fault?" Wendy looks at me incredulously. "Okay, okay. It might be a little my fault."

The coach blows his whistle again and the boys all crowd around him. He directs them and they form a line before the hoop. They take turns throwing the ball. Kyle's ball sits for a tense moment on the cusp of the basket, then falls into the hoop. I whoop appreciatively, making Wendy squeal. He returns to the end of the line and I lose interest in the proceedings. It doesn't get any better until he takes his second shot (a smooth success, the ball falling through the net after a satisfying slam) then it gets boring again.

The dribbling, which necessitates Kyle crouching, is far more pleasurable to watch. When he has the ball, the sound is less grating. Instead of repetitive dull thumps, he bats it deftly so that the offending noises is muted into a series of sharp slaps. After some offence and defence drills, the coach blows his whistle one final time. Even though there's a tense silence emanating from the court, I still can't clearly tell when the coach is saying. The group begins to disperse.

I bound down the steps, taking them three at at a time, down to the court, Wendy following and calling to me to be more careful. Kyle turns around, half-smiling, his gaze far away. He focuses on me and charges. I slide to a halt and catch Kyle in my arms, pulling him tight. He wraps his arms around my neck and squeezes my back. He's warm and sticky and utterly delightful to hold. I don't know how I'm going to let him go.

"I made captain!" he yells, then releases me. I hold up my hand for a high five and slap his sweaty palm with my own. "I still can't believe it – I never thought – damn, this is going to look awesome on my college applications!"

"Not that they need to look any more awesome," I tell him. Wendy joins us on the court and Kyle repeats the good news. She leaps up and hugs him, telling him she always knew he'd make captain someday. Someone taps Kyle on the shoulder and he gets another set of congratulations, then another from someone else, and then yet more from someone else. I hang back with Wendy, waiting for him to be done. He finally returns to us, but I can tell by his expression that it won't be for long.

"The guys want to go out for pizza to celebrate," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Is it okay if I catch up with you some other time?"

"It's cool," I say.

"Awesome. You free Thursday after school?"

"Sure."

Kyle glances at Wendy, who takes one look at my pleading expression and sighs with resignation. "I've got an urgent something or other on that day. I'll leave you two to it."

"Awesome," Kyle chirps, making Wendy's look of annoyance deepen. "Thanks for coming, both of you!"

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><p>My excitement for Thursday night is tempered by my mom announcing that we'll be hosting dinner for the Broflovskis that night, so my alone time with Kyle...isn't. It's probably fate's way of telling me to keep my hormones in check and not to pursue such a lost cause. It hasn't stopped me from dressing nicely for the evening – smart navy blue shirt in some soft, strokable material, coupled with designer jeans for that casual but attractive look. I think I look good – for me – but I keep worrying that it looks too serious for a midweek dinner party. I've already changed my outfit twice.<p>

Tonight's not just about looking like hot shit and magically making Kyle forget about Craig. I'll be meeting his parents properly for the first time. Kyle's mom already has a high opinion of me, but it seems so loosely grounded in reality that I could easily wreck that. I don't know anything about Kyle's dad except what my own dad told me: some nonsense about him picking the locks on their handcuffs and hot-wiring a helicopter last weekend. I try to take solace in the fact that I won Ike over already.

The doorbell rings. I tear myself away from the mirror and the temptation to adjust my outfit yet again and hurry downstairs. Mom's already let the Broflovski's into the living room (which is strangely dust-free and devoid of the usual debris), where Dad's passing around a tray of drinks. Kyle is looking luscious in a dark green turtleneck, but he keeps shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. It's Ike, in a miniature suit, who notices and greets me first.

"Hi, Stan!" he says, rushing over. Kyle starts and looks over, rubbing his covered neck. "How do you do?"

"Fine," I reply, but Ike shakes his head sadly.

"Wrong answer," he sighs. "You're supposed to just say 'how do you do' in return?"

"Stan isn't a member of the nineteenth century British aristocracy, Ike," Kyle snaps, joining us away from the adults and my grouchy sister. "And neither are you."

"But they were awesome," Ike whines. "Besides, I'm Canadian. That's tangentially related."

"Please excuse my pretentious little brother," says Kyle.

"Please excuse my harlot of an older brother," Ike mutters.

"Harlot?" I echo, as Kyle stomps on Ike's toes.

"Yeah, he-" Ike cuts himself off with another cry of pain as Kyle steps on his toes again. "Let's just say – ow, quit it! He's wearing that – ow – turtleneck-"

I gently tug the glowering Kyle away from his younger brother. His turtleneck is soft and fluffy to the touch. I try to curb my visions of lying on Kyle's chest, my cheek rubbing against that material. Kyle has the grace to look ashamed of his behaviour, but I still don't know what a harlot is. Not that I want to admit it in front of Ike. I'm pretty sure I can guess what Kyle's turtleneck is concealing. Craig must be getting more territorial.

Mom calls us through for dinner. I've been reminding her ever since she told me about tonight's plans that Kyle and his family are Jewish and the food must be Kosher. She eventually stopped humouring me and snapped that she was well aware of that, and asked if I wanted to help cook if I was so concerned. Since giving Kyle's parents food poisoning probably wouldn't impress them that much, I declined her offer. It's just as well, since I don't think I could match the delicious smells wafting in through the kitchen. The sweet honey glazed lamb takes pride of place on the table, the glazing so thick I can almost see my reflection in it. The smell contrasts with the sharp, tart tones of the carrots cooked in lemon, one of Mom's specialities. My favourite, though, is the thick, creamy mashed potato, artistically sprinkled with some neatly chopped green chives.

I plop myself down next to Kyle and poor Ike is lumbered with sitting next to Shelly. The parents all sit together at one end of the table, excitedly discussing their adventure last weekend and planning something similar sometime soon. The food is served, with more than enough to go around even after we've all piled our plates high. Ike tries to engage Shelly in some polite conversation but she calls him a turd and keeps eating. He instead chats to me and Kyle, who still makes it quite plain that he hasn't forgiven Ike for calling him a harlot.

The ruby-red wine is flowing very freely at the parents' end of the table – so freely that there are more than a few red stains blooming on the white tablecloth. My intention to win over Kyle's parents is somewhat hampered by how well they're getting along with my own parents, but at least I've gotten through the evening without making them think any worse of me. Kyle, Ike and me leave for the solace of my bedroom, not wishing to hear more about their antics. As Ike rifles through my things, Kyle folds his arms.

"Ike, don't you have homework to do?"

"Nope."

"Are you sure? I think you do."

"I think I don't. Since I'm the one who was in my lessons and would know, I guess I'll go with my opinion rather than yours."

Kyle collapses on the bed and shakes his head dramatically. "Younger brothers are such a strain."

"Yep," Ike agrees.

"So, Stan," Kyle says, looking over at me. "There's a big party tomorrow. You want to come?"

"Sure."

"Who'll be there?" Ike asks.

"Not you," says Kyle.

"I am wounded, big brother, but what I meant was who else except you two will be going. Unless it's to be held in your pants?"

Kyle hurls a pillow at Ike, which hits his little brother with a loud thump. He must be very experienced at pillow fights. I wonder how many people he's fought before me – and if any of them ever managed to win.

"In case you were wondering, Stan," he says, pointedly ignoring Ike. "Lots of people from our homeroom period will be going. You can bring Kenny and Butters, too, if you want."

"You haven't told him where it is," Ike chirps.

"I was going to do that when there weren't any nosy little brothers eavesdropping!"

"Will this end up like the last party you invited me to?" I ask. Kyle huffs.

"No, Craig will not intervene. He's coming too."

Ike and I share a brief, but very meaningful, look. Kyle notices and scowls at Ike. "It'll be fine," he insists.

"You know that he really hates me, right?"

"It's not like it'll just be the three of us. I'm sure he can't object to you simply being at the same place as him."

"I'll be sure to tell the coroner that you said that," says Ike. I head over to the computer and start googling.

"Craig isn't going to kill me!" says Kyle.

"No, he's going to kill Stan," Ike says, patiently.

"Whatever," Kyle mutters, rolling over on the bed so he can't see Ike any more. "Stan, what're you up to?"

"Just checking out how much kevlar vests are. Do you think I'll need protection for bullets and stab wounds, or does Craig have a preference for one or the other?"

"For Abraham's sake, Stan, Craig isn't going to kill you for being at a party!" Kyle huffs. Ike comes over to help me pick my armour, leaning on my chair as he does so.

"Hey, there's a bulletproof suitcase!" he chirps, pointing at a thumbnail on screen. I click on it out of curiosity."You definitely need one of those."

"But that leather pattern is so fake looking," I say, examining the enlarged picture critically. It really does look fake – even in the small picture, the surface looks plastic and tacky.

"It's a bulletproof briefcase. Who cares what it looks like?"

"Why would I take a briefcase to a party anyway?"

"How else will you carry your important documents there?" Ike asks.

"What important documents?"

"Your passport."

"Why would I take a passport to a party?" I glance over at Kyle, who's sitting up on the bed and peering at the screen with interest, but still looks vaguely annoyed. I flash him a smile and he gives me one in return.

"In case you decide you want to leave the country," Ike says, as if that's a totally reasonable thing to do at a party. "Or get married."

"People don't decide to get married in the middle of a party, Ike," Kyle scoffs. "Which you'd know if you'd ever been to one."

"I got three proposals at Filmore's party last week," Ike says, beatifically.

"You did not!"

"It might have been four. Anyway, even if no-one wants to marry you, Kyle, I'm sure Stan could find someone easily enough. Especially if he has the documents ready to go."

"I think this is the best option," I say, interrupting their argument and pointing at the newest item on screen – a shale blue waistcoat. "Stylish and safe, and it'll only set me back $700."

"It's a bargain!"

"Craig isn't going to shoot you."

"That's cool, it protects against stab wounds, too."


	10. Chapter 9

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter – hearing that you're all enjoying the story is really encouraging and inspiring. I truly appreciate you all taking the time to leave a comment, since I know it can be hard to figure out what to say sometimes! (Hell, I find it hard enough to figure out what to say in response!)**

**Without further rambling, on to the story...**

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><p>"Are you sure we're supposed to be here, Stan?" Butters asks, stopping outside the house and pawing at the ground nervously with his toe. The curtains of the house are closed but the familiar sounds of pounding bass lines and joyous hollering can be heard even outside the building. "I mean, do you even know whose house this is?"<p>

"Sure," I reply, shoving my hands in my jean pockets and trying to act more relaxed than I actually am. It's not so much the going in to a stranger's house that's worrying me – although that is a slight concern – but the thought of what might happen at this party. Not that I expect to be getting hot and heavy with Kyle in some secluded corner, but I'd at least like to make him consider the idea and dump Craig. Because of that, I've spent most of the evening trying to do something with my floppy hair – straighten it, give it at least some sense of style – but it's resolutely just doing whatever it damn well pleases, wisps intertwining around each other messily. "It's Steve's."

"Who's Steve?" Butters asks. I shrug.

"Some guy. But Kyle invited us, so it has to be fine."

"Unless that sneaky Jew-rat has set us up," Eric ponders, running a hand through his slicked back hair. "It could be a trap."

"You all worry too fucking much," Kenny says, opening the door without bothering to knock and striding confidently inside. He high fives some people I don't know as we follow him in. No one questions who we are, despite Butters tiptoeing in like a guilt-ridden thief. My initial plan is to stick near Kenny, who seems to know everyone and can validate my presence if necessary, but he spoils that by homing in on a group of giggling girls.

"Hey, ladies," he says. "Want to join me for a not-so-serious discussion somewhere quiet?" The girls look as perplexed at that as I feel. Kenny huffs, flicking his dirty blond fringe with a gust of breath. "Damn, that line totally worked for JFK. What's the difference between him and me?"

"Authority?" suggests one.

"Charisma?" says another.

"Rogueish good looks?"

"General badassery?"

"I have shit-tons of all those things. Maybe even fuck-tons."

"How come we've seen no evidence of this?" one asks, smiling wryly.

"'Cause it's all kept in my pants. If you want to get a closer look..." They laugh, instead of dousing him with their drinks like I'm sure I would in their position.

I make to head off somewhere else, but Kenny grabs my arm. "Stan, dude," he whispers. "Where are you going? The chicks are here."

"I want to find Kyle."

Kenny looks incredulously at me. "Why? You can't fuck him."

I almost ask him why he has so little faith in me, then remember that Kenny doesn't know about the whole gay thing. I wave farewell and wander off. Kenny seems pretty happy with his new-found friends, anyway.

I find Butters and Eric chatting to Wendy and Bebe in the living room. Wendy and Bebe have claimed a sofa and a bottle of rum, and are resisting all efforts to have either item taken away from them. Butters is sitting cross-legged in front of them and is probably the only person in the room whose can of coke doesn't contain any extra ingredients. Bebe catches sight of me and waves wildly at me.

"Stan! Get your ass over here!"

I comply and she pulls me into a hug whilst still sitting down. Wendy offers me a rum and coke, which I accept. Some of the rum has slipped into the lip of the can and burns my lip as I take a sip.

"You guys seen Kyle?" I ask. Wendy frowns at me, but Bebe just shakes her head.

"Sorry, honey."

"Who cares about him, anyway?" Eric asks. He takes a gulp of his drink and tries to keep a straight face as it obviously burns his throat.

"He did invite me," I remind him.

"Hey, there's Craig!" Bebe announces. "He might know! Hey, Craig! Coo-ee!"

"I don't think that's a good idea," I say, hurriedly, as Wendy covers her eyes with a hand. Unfortunately, Craig decides to grace us with his presence.

"Yeah, Bebe?" he asks, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Stan's looking for Kyle. Have you seen him?"

Craig had been carefully avoiding looking at me, but now he turns and gives me a withering glare. "What do you want him for?"

"Kyle's the one who invited Stan," Bebe chirps. "So he wants to say hi."

"Kyle invited you?" Craig asks, the beer can in his hand crinkling slightly under the sudden pressure.

"Yeah," I say, feigning aloofness.

"Hey, there's Kyle!" Butters, announces, pointing into the hallway. He's right – although from what I can see of the expression on Kyle's face, it seems like the last thing Kyle wanted was to be discovered. He hurries along, but Craig is already on his tail. I'm torn on whether or not to follow.

"Don't," says Wendy. "Stan, drop it." Unfortunately for her, the liquid courage from the rum and coke had different advice, and I give chase.

Craig has cornered Kyle in the hallway. I can't see his face, but I can see the crushed beer can tightly enclosed in his fist. Kyle has crossed his arms and keeps glancing away mutinously. His lips are pursed – Craig is the one doing the talking, and Kyle doesn't seem to be enjoying the conversation one bit. It's almost definitely a bad idea for me to intrude on this.

"Everyone! Everyone pay attention to me!" Bebe yells, suddenly appearing in the hallway and jumping up and down. "Let's play a game!" She grabs my shoulder. "Let's play seven minutes in heaven!"

"Fuck yeah!" Kenny yells, although I can't actually see him.

"As the orchestrator-thingummy of this game, I will pick who goes in and with who!"

"With whom," Wendy corrects her, emerging from the living room. Looks like they've surrendered the sofa, but Wendy still has a tight grip on the bottle of rum.

"Whatever, whatever, whatever," Bebe says, waving a hand dismissively. "First up will be Stan!"

"What?" I say, my stomach churning.

"Wiiiiiith..." Bebe puts a hand over her eyes and waves a finger along the crowd. I realise that she's got her fingers parted just a crack, making her fully aware of who she's pointing at. She stops her hand and removes the other from her eyes. She's pointing right at... "Kyle! Stan and Kyle will be the first in the closet!"

There's general laughter from everyone barring me, Kyle, Craig and Wendy. Kyle's eyes are wide, but his expression is otherwise unreadable. Bebe drags me over to the closet, grabbing Kyle along the way, and shoves us both inside. The glimpse of Craig's face I get before the door is closed is contorted with rage, but the last thing I see of the outside is Bebe winking cheekily at me.

The closet is dark and unseen things are poking into me no matter where I move. I run a hand along the wall in case there's a light switch, but with no luck. Aside from not wanting to break anything, I'd like to get a better look at Kyle. He looked amazing out in the hallway in a loose black shirt and tightly fitted teal corduroy pants. It made me want to grab his ass even more than usual, and that's saying a damn lot.

The heavy bass beats are all I can hear of the music, but even that's muffled by the general hubbub of talking and yelling from the guests themselves. An unseen insect runs over my arm and I swot it away. It's not exactly a romantic situation, but I'm still very aware that I'm alone, in a tiny room, with the object of my ferocious desires.

"Sorry for getting you into trouble with Craig," I say to Kyle, my voice lowered in case anyone is eavesdropping. I immediately regret it – do I really want to remind Kyle that he's taken, and that the best course of action is probably to get the hell out of here?

"It's fine," Kyle says. He sounds annoyed, but the anger somehow doesn't seem to be directed at me. "He's just being an asshole."

We stand, awkwardly, not touching. My eyes are slowly adjusting to the lack of light. Kyle is hunched over. The argument must have gotten to him more than he wants to admit. I put a hand on his shoulder and he moves closer. He voluntarily wraps his arms around me. I pull him to my chest and hold him tightly. He's so skinny I can feel his ribs through his shirt, but the arms clenched around me are still strong. Even so, I feel an urge to protect him.

"You okay?" I whisper into his ear.

"I think so," he whispers back, resting his head on my shoulder. "Your hugs are awesome."

"Huh?"

"They're so...tight." He laughs, nervously. "Sorry, it's probably weird to be told that by a guy."

My stomach tightens and I involuntarily think of Wendy. At least that killed the stirring in my pants, but the stabbing guilt isn't pleasant. I need to tell Kyle that I'm gay.

"It's cool," I say, trying to ignore my conscience. Kyle lifts his head from my shoulder. He's so close that I feel the hot breath from his lips against my own.

"Sorry that you got stuck in here with me, too. It's a waste of your turn."

"Honestly? I'd rather be hanging out with you in here than expected to make out with some girl who I've never seen before." For more reasons than he knows, my conscience argues.

"Dammit, Stan. Could you try to be a little less perfect?" I've longed to have Kyle think of me like that, but now he's saying it I feel awful.

"I'm really not perfect."

"Yeah, right." He forces a chuckle. "If I shut my damn mouth, you could always pretend you're kissing a girl..." I can hardly believe my ears or my luck.

"But...Craig?" I ask, not wanting to twist Kyle into doing something he would regret, no matter how badly I want to lock my lips with his and forget about doing the right thing.

"It's not really cheating," he reasons, whispering directly into my ear. "I mean, you're straight, so there's no risk of it going further..."

I step back, knocking some things over. They hit the floor with a loud clatter and I hear Bebe giggling from outside. Guess I was right to be concerned about eavesdropping. Kyle moves forward, but I put out a hand to stop him.

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine," he gabbles. "It was dumb of me. I probably drank too much or something-"

"Kyle," I say, breaking him off. I swallow, hard, and close my eyes. "I'm gay."

"What?" he asks, his voice low.

"I'm gay. I didn't want to come out here yet because of how the football team might react-"

"Why didn't you tell me?" he hisses, stepping back. He crunches something underfoot, but neither of us bother to check what it was.

"Craig was already trying to stop me hanging out with you. If he found out I was gay-"

"Are you suggesting I can't handle my own boyfriend?" he snaps.

"No, I just- I just wanted to be able to hang out with you-"

"You lied to me!"

"Not outright," I protest. "I just didn't correct your assumption-"

"Which is just as bad!" He tries the handle, but the door won't budge.

"Kyle, I'm sorry-"

"Fuck you." He puts all his weight behind the door and manages to prise it open, making Bebe stumble over on the other side. Craig is standing close to her, probably trying to listen in. He moves towards Kyle as he exits the closet, but Kyle sweeps past without paying him any attention. Craig tags along behind him, flipping me off from behind his back. Bebe looks at me with concern, but I just want get out of there. As I leave the crowded hallway, whispers following me everywhere I go, I hear her starting a new round of the game. I'm grateful for the diversion.

Wendy seizes me as I head into the living room. She pulls me away from the crowds of people into the back yard, not bothering to speak until we're completely alone – or at least, far enough from people that we won't be overheard. There are a few other people in the backyard, sitting on the grass and chatting. I see the glow of a lighter in one darkened corner, the occupants hidden in the bushes.

"What happened?" she whispers, her eyes wide.

"He wanted to kiss me until I told him I was gay," I tell her, my voice hollow. "Now he hates me."

"Oh, shit."

"Yeah."

"What are you going to do?"

"What can I do? He hates me now. You were right, I should have told him straight away."

"He doesn't hate you," she says, but I shake my head.

"He was seriously pissed."

"Kyle's always had a bit of a temper, but he's logical. He'll see why you did it and forgive you."

"Really?"

"Yeah." She bites her lip. "It just might...take him a while."

"How long is a while?"

"Does that matter?" she asks, hopefully.

"Wendy..."

"Well... Last week, he forgave Kevin for breaking his swing at his sixth birthday party," she says, smiling weakly. I moan and bury my face in my hands.


	11. Chapter 10

As much as I had hoped Wendy was wrong, Kyle proved stubbornly pissed off at me. I sent him numerous apologetic texts and received a grand total of zero in response. When his parents visited late on Saturday afternoon, his mom even asked me why he was in such a bad mood and hadn't wanted to come over with them. I sulked in my room, listening to the most angst-ridden songs I possessed, until my inebriated father banged on my door and announced that they were all going out to 'paint the town red' and that they would be back sometime tomorrow. Oh, and that Shelly was having her boyfriend over, so that I needed to leave the house and stay over at a friend's place.

Unimpressed, I rang Kenny, who failed to answer. I tried Butters next, but he told me that he was grounded for not vacuuming under the sofa. In desperation, I rang Eric, who laughed and told me that he had a hot date tonight.

"Who with, Colonel Sanders?" I snapped. I wasn't in the mood for his shit, not when I just wanted to get this sorted out so I could go back to moping and trying to analyse what happened last night.

"Fuck you, hippie, it's with the hottest girl in school!"

"You know that your hand isn't hot or a girl, right?" Unsurprisingly, he hung up.

I tried reasoning with Shelly after ringing Kenny again and failing to get through, but she was impervious to my logic and difficulty.

"Guess your turd friends hate you, turd. You can always go camping."

"In South Park?" I asked her, aghast. "I'll freeze to death!"

"So you'll be a turd popsicle. So what?"

"This is fratricide!"

I packed my things and headed over to Kenny's, reasoning that if I turned up on his doorstep he'd find it hard to turn me away. The plan was thwarted by the asshole not actually being in and his drunken father not knowing when he'd be back, where he'd gone or even what day it was. Trying to contact my own parents to make them force Shelly to let me stay over was impossible and when I went back to my house, I found that Shelly had put the latch on, preventing me from re-entering.

Which is why I now find myself in Walmart, checking out the tents. What I really want is one with thick walls, easy to set up, with toilet and kitchen facilities, that bears won't be able to get in to - and maybe a fireplace. Unfortunately, I think those are more the properties of a house, and what I will leave with is a flimsy thing which will fall down on me whilst I try to sleep.

"Hey, Stan!" Ike's coming down the aisle, pushing a trolley laden with various luxury foods – Italian salami, a big wheel of Brie, vegetables which I've never seen before – and a huge bag of toffee popcorn. "Going camping?"

"Apparently," I say, sourly. "The parents left for the night and Shelly booted me out of the house. So Kenny chooses tonight to go missing in action, Butters either has the weakest excuse ever or the weirdest parents-"

"It's probably the latter."

"And Cartman has a hot date."

"With a bottle of barbecue sauce and his hand?" A passing shopper baulks at Ike's word as he passes.

"See, that's what I thought," I say, pleased that Ike shares my position on the matter, "But he got pissed and hung up on me. Maybe I should have offered to film." Ike retches.

"You need a place to stay that badly?"

"Anything's preferable to sleeping in a tent in South Park. I told Shelly I'd die of frostbite, but she didn't care."

"You could always stay at mine."

"I'd like to, but I'm not exactly Kyle's favourite person right now..." I say, shifting my weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Ike's eyebrows shoot up.

"You mean you're the 'lying asswipe of a fucktard douche'?" I wince.

"Probably."

"Huh, I thought Craig had brought him a triple bacon cheeseburger again or something. What'd you do?"

"Something I'd really rather not discuss in the middle of Walmart."

Ike pulls a face like he's just been force-fed a bottle of lemon juice. "Is this going to be suitable for my young ears? Did you give him a dirty Sanchez or something?"

"Fuck, no! Do you really think I'm into that shit?"

"I was just checking. Is it suitable for me to hear?"

"I guess so. It's apparently nowhere near as sordid as whatever you can come up with yourself."

"So you can tell me about it when you stay over tonight," he says, decisively. "Now let's go get some snacks." He starts pushing the trolley determinedly out of the aisle towards the confectionery, a devilish glint in his eyes.

"You seem to be forgetting that your brother is not happy with me right now," I remind him, jogging along to catch up. Ike pauses next to the bags of chocolates as big as my forearm and picks up a couple of different brands. He reads each package carefully.

"He's been out all day. He told me not to expect him back tonight."

"Where is he?"

"Probably at Craig's." He ends up chucking both bags in the trolley and pushes the trolley forward a few yards to check out the cookies.

"What does he want to go there for?"

"See, that probably gets classed as 'things not suitable for my ears'."

* * *

><p>After helping Ike carry the shopping home – by which I mean I took most of the bags, bulging and tearing with the sheer volume of items shoved inside them, whilst he carried the giant bag of popcorn – I collapse on his living room sofa. There's a small end table beside the sofa, with a framed photograph of Kyle, sitting on a bench in a leafy park. It seems to have been taken just as he realised he was being photographed – he looks disapprovingly at the camera. It reminds me how he's pissed at me right now and I squirm and turn away from it.<p>

Ike brings me a chilled glass of coke, which I chug thankfully. He perches on the arm of the sofa and looks expectantly at me. I look back at him.

"So, why is my darling brother mad at you?" Ike prompts. I groan.

"Do I have to tell you?"

"I saved you from hypothermia. It's the least you could do."

"I told him I was gay," I confess. Ike raises an eyebrow. "He thought I was straight."

"That was dumb of him," Ike says, further knocking my confidence.

"So then he was pissed that I lied to him and now he's ignoring me. The end."

"That's also dumb of him."

"You should tell him that."

"When did you tell him this? At the party?" I nod, but don't divulge further information. Ike, the fucker, seems to pick up that I'm holding something back. "What else happened?"

"We were playing seven minutes in heaven in the closet."

"Oh my god. Did Craig know?" Ike asks, leaning in gleefully.

"Know? Bebe tore Kyle away from him right before his eyes." Ike laughs and claps his hands.

"Awesome! Except for the part where you pissed Kyle off, but that's pretty easy to do, so no biggie."

"No biggie?" I echo. "I've texted him, like, twenty thousand apologies and he's still ignoring me!"

"When my brother pissed, he stays pissed."

"So how do I un-piss him off?"

"See, lots of people have asked that question, but scientists have still to find a cure. Unless it's something else pissing him off. You could just wait until that happens." Ike nibbles his thumbnail, gazing up into space. "But since it's you...you could probably win him over by taking your shirt off."

"Yeah, that's not going to happen. It'll probably just piss him off more."

"Was there anything else?"

"Uh. Just that he tried to kiss me."

"Take that, Craig," says Ike, punching the air triumphantly.

"Which is when I told him I was gay. Because he reasoned it would be okay if I was straight."

"How he's getting A's in Critical Thinking is beyond me," Ike says, shaking his head.

"So what do I do now?" Ike shrugs.

"How should I know? I'm just a kid."

"He's your brother!"

"Eh. He'll come around. Just give him time." Ike rubs his hands together. "Now, how about some bad TV and some popcorn?"

* * *

><p>Ike's idea of bad TV really is really, really bad. Which is possibly why I'm not paying attention and I hear a series of thuds from upstairs. I leave the living room to investigate, but as I reach the steps the thuds cease. I dismiss it as an unfamiliar house making weird noises and head back to the living room. Which, typically, is when the thuds start again. I head back up the stairs, trying to locate the source of the strange noise. It stops, again, but I'm not going to let it outwit me this time. I hover in the corridor, waiting for it to start again.<p>

There's a knock the the front door. I hear Ike grumbling and getting up to answer it. Instinctively, I grab the heaviest object to hand – a narrow ceramic vase – and charge down the stairs just as Ike opens the door. I just hope I'm not too late.

"Hey, Craig," says Ike, his voice flat. "Kyle isn't here."

"Craig?" I echo. I head over to the door and stand protectively beside Ike. Craig, whose face is flushed, scowls as he sees me. "Were you trying to break in upstairs?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demands.

"Stan's my sugar daddy," Ike purrs, snaking an arm around my waist and running a finger down my chest. "We were having a romantic evening in until you arrived. As soon as you leave, we'll be continuing with it."

"Where's Kyle?"

"No idea. I assumed he was at yours." Without another word, Craig turns away and heads back to his truck, pulling his phone out in the process. "Goodbye, dear Craig!" Ike yells after him, then slams the door.

"Why do you hate him so much?"

"He made Kyle boring." Ike heads back into the living room and flops back down on the sofa. "Before he started hanging out with Craig's gang, he got involved with all kinds of cool shit – stuff you just wouldn't believe unless you were there – but when Craig came along he was all," Ike clears his throat, then pinches his nose to make his voice nasally. "'Kyle, that shit is dumb. Let's sit inside and watch stupid car shows all day whilst my guinea pig shits on you'."

"Kinky."

"Ugh, he probably does get off on it," Ike sniffs. "And I was all, 'Hey, Kyle, take me to Canada to find a sasquatch' and Kyle was all, 'No, Ike, I'd rather hang with Craig'. Or I'd go 'Kyle, your old friends have stolen a tiger and I want to go get one of its teeth for research' and he'd say, 'That's dangerous, and don't be such a nerd'."

"Where did they get a tiger from?"

"Not a clue," Ike says, wistfully. "But anyway, now Kyle is boring and he sucks."

"But Kyle isn't boring now," I argue. "And he faced off against the whore mafia with me, even though Craig told him not to."

Ike claps his hands. "That does support my hypothesis. I think you're neutralising Craig's influence."

"Even if I am, he hates me now. So I won't any more."

"Oh, really? Remember: we don't know where he is right now. And neither does Craig." Ike beams with pride. "He's probably out doing something dumb and reckless because he's pissed at you."

"Should you really be happy that your brother might be endangering himself?" I ask, doubtfully.

"If it gets my big brother back in the long run? He can break the bones in all of his limbs for all I care." He picks up the half-empty bag of popcorn and offers it to me. "Want some?"

But unlike Ike, I can't relax knowing that I might have endangered Kyle. I try to call him a few times, but his phone line is constantly engaged. I can't stomach the popcorn or any of the many other snacks Ike offers to me. I pace the living room, pausing to stop at the window as if there was a chance Kyle might be ambling back home.

Craig's beaten hummer is still parked on the sidewalk in front of the house. Craig is sat in the driver's seat, but doesn't seem to be showing any signs of intending to leave. Instead, he's talking on the phone, his lips moving for longer than I've ever seen before. I didn't realise he was capable of having actual conversations. I relay the strange news to Ike, who groans about how he threw out a whole pack of rotten eggs yesterday.

We go back to watching really bad television, with me occasionally glancing at the window. Craig's car doesn't move away. I eventually, unwillingly get drawn into the current show: a travesty of a game show about dogs who want to be air hostesses. It's apparent that Ike is an avid viewer of the show. He curses when his favourite dog's main rival successfully carries a tray without spilling anything and cheers when his chosen one operates a fire extinguisher perfectly.

We both jump when the front door opens. Kyle, his face splattered with blood and his clothes stained with the same substance, staggers into the living room. He's gripping a dented and similarly bloodstained crowbar in one hand. Craig has followed him inside, trying to reach out to him, but Kyle bats his hand away. He waves the crowbar at me.

"Jesus Christ, Kyle!" I scream, pushing Ike behind me. "What the fuck happened to you?"

"Get the fuck away from my little brother, you fucking sicko!" he screams back at me, approaching and keeping the crowbar held out threateningly.

"Kyle, did you forget your meds?" Ike yells, diving out from behind me before I can stop him. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Craig told me what he was doing to you," says Kyle, trying to push Ike aside so he can get to me. Ike tries to pull the crowbar away from him.

"That was a joke!"

"So what is he doing here?" Craig asks. Despite the scene unfurling before him, his nasal voice is still flat and monotonous.

"My douchey sister threw me out of the house and no-one else would let me stay over!"

Kyle seems to be mulling over this fresh information. He's stopped moving towards me and is just stood there, swaying slightly. He opens his mouth slightly, and I brace myself for his judgement.

He pukes on the floor. I'm not sure what kind of verdict that is. Ike flinches away, but I move forward just in time to catch him so he doesn't fall into the mess. Craig strides over and snatches him from me.

"I'll clean him up," he says. "He's my boyfriend."

He leads him away to the bathroom, scolding him. I glance down and see that my shirt is now covered in puke and blood. Ike sniffs and grimaces.

"Maybe my big brother did go a little overboard," he concedes.

* * *

><p>Ike and I go back to watching TV in awkward near silence, punctuated only by me wondering aloud where all the blood came from. Ike is unconcerned and insists that it's not Kyle's, since he seemed unhurt, and his brother wouldn't kill someone unless it was really necessary, so all will be fine. It doesn't stop me jumping every time the sound of sirens blare from outside.<p>

I can hear shouting from upstairs, then Craig storms out of the house, slamming the door behind him. Ike immediately leaps up from his seat and tears upstairs. I follow him, hesitantly. I'm really not Kyle's favourite person right now and I don't know if he still has that crowbar.

Ike charges straight into Kyle's room, ignoring the fact that the door was probably closed for a reason, but I hang back at the doorway. Kyle's hair is wet and he's changed his clothes – something that I wish I could do. Ike refused to let me continue wearing my sodden mess of a shirt and put it to wash, but naturally none of his tops fit me and the door to his parents' room was locked. Being without a top makes me feel even more vulnerable, even though it wouldn't offer much defence against a crowbar. Luckily, Kyle's not holding it any more – but I can't tell where he's stashed it.

Kyle, who looked up from his book when Ike barged in, has narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously. "Why are you shirtless?" he demands, as his eyes flick up and down – and back up and down again. I put an arm over my chest and rub my other arm awkwardly.

"Someone got blood and puke on it," I remind him, making him drop his gaze back to his book. "Incidentally, where did all that blood come from?"

"Kenny and I got in a bar fight after he ran up a tab we couldn't afford to pay," he says. His voice is noticeably less slurred than before. "Luckily, it was a bit of a dive, so there were plenty of things we could use as weapons."

"You mean you didn't obtain that crowbar legally? Kyle, I am shocked," Ike says, tutting.

"Where's Kenny?"

"They killed him."

"Oh my god! Are you fucking serious?"

"Yeah, but at least I got away."

"What did you and Craig argue about?" Ike asks, sitting down on Kyle's bed. Kyle shoves him away.

"Fuck off."

"Ah, bedroom problems," Ike sighs, getting back to his feet.

"We don't have any fucking bedroom problems," Kyle growls, looking up from his book again. He glances at me, still scowling. "And you need to cover up."

"Yeah, but Ike's clothes are a little tight on me," I say. "I guess I could maybe work out some sort of toga with a tablecloth..."

The corner of Kyle's mouth twitches upwards for a nanosecond. He silently gets to his feet and rummages in a drawer, then chucks a blue t-shirt at me.

"You can wear that. Now can you both leave me the hell alone?"

We exit the room. Ike looks deflated, but won't respond to any enquiries about his well-being until we've gone back downstairs.

"Not even gratuitous nudity cheered him up," says Ike. "I'm all out of ideas."

* * *

><p>Now that Ike's finally bored of terrible TV, I've been left to sleep. Theoretically, it'd be nice to get a bit of rest after these tumultuous few days, but my mind has different plans. I keep relaying those moments in that darkened closet. If only I'd kept my dumb mouth shut for a few seconds, I'd have been able to press it against Kyle's for a few glorious seconds. I unwillingly fantasise about what might have happened after. We'd both be driven wild with repressed passion. I'd slip a hand down the back of his trousers, squeezing his fine ass whilst I pushed him against the wall. Moaning, he'd...<p>

I hear the thud of footsteps from upstairs and stop the fantasy there. The real Kyle wouldn't do that. The real Kyle is understandably pissed off at me for not telling him I was gay, not awakening him to the possibility that I might be interested in more than friendship. The real Kyle might never speak to me again.

The real Kyle's t-shirt smells of him. It's comforting, even if it is a bit constricting in the chest. I don't get why he lent it to me. Surely he's so pissed with me that he doesn't want me tainting his clothes? Is he going to burn it when he gets it back, just so it doesn't infect his other clothes?

Why did he want to kiss me? That's the crucial issue here, one that I've mulled over in every spare moment, but I'm no closer to finding an answer to that than when we were first in that closet. I don't think he's going to want to let me in on that answer – or even let me back into his life.


	12. Chapter 11

Ike had located the sleeping bag for me. I was curled up inside it on the sofa and sleeping pretty well – certainly a lot better than I would have done in a tent – but a loud stomping noise wakes me with a start. I look around the darkness. I can sense movement, but exactly what was responsible for it is indiscernible.

I sit up and steel myself in case it was a burglar - or worse. The footsteps are getting closer, entering the living room. My eyes are starting to adjust to the darkness. The figure wasn't very tall, but I can't make out more than that. With a click, the light flashes on. I shield my eyes from the worst of the light and try to peer around.

"Can't sleep?" Kyle says, leaning against the doorway. His pyjamas aren't nearly as great as last time; the trousers reach all the way down his legs. I notice that the skin around his eyes is irritated.

"I was sleeping fine until an elephant charged down the stairs," I say, wondering why he's come down in the first place. Obviously, it's his house, but unless my watch has broken it's four in the morning. This is no hour to be up and about.

"Oh," he replies, his composure faltering. "Really? But the sofa's nowhere near long enough for you."

"Dude, the alternative was sleeping on the ground. This is comparatively awesome."

"You're fine with sleeping here?" he asks. I've no idea where he's going with this and I'm too sleepy to think of the slightest explanation.

"Yeah."

"Oh. Well. Fine." He flicks the light off again, leaving me alone in the dark with a whole new set of questions that I can't answer.

* * *

><p>When I wake up of my own accord at a slightly more reasonable hour, ready to go to the animal shelter and help out a little again, the house is unnaturally still. I head into the bathroom, where my t-shirt from yesterday is dangling from an airing rack. It's a little damp, which probably means it'll chill me to the bone as soon as it meets the frosty air outside, but I don't want to risk pissing Kyle off further. I pull his t-shirt, warm and comforting, off and replace it with my own cold and wet one.<p>

I head upstairs, intending to drop it off in front of his room, but his door creaks open as I approach and I see a familiar set of blue eyes scowling at me from it. I hold his t-shirt out placatingly.

"I was just coming to give you this back. Thanks."

The door opens a little further, revealing a dishevelled Kyle who's either not managed to get much sleep or suffering from a hell of a hangover. He takes the top and hugs it close to his chest, but doesn't say anything.

"So...I'll be off now. Thanks for not turfing me out." He shrugs. "Are you okay?"

"Sure," he replies, but doesn't meet my eyes.

"Still mad at me?"

"Extremely."

"But you still checked if I was sleeping okay last night?"

"Fuck you," he snorts, rolling his eyes. He keeps the door mostly closed, blocking my entrance and plainly not wanting to talk – but doesn't close it completely. "Why didn't you tell me you were gay, asswipe?" Kyle snaps, breaking the silence.

"I told you," I say. "Your boyfriend had pretty much forbidden you from hanging out with me already. I figured mentioning that there was a chance I might want in your pants would piss him off further."

"I'm not egotistical enough to assume that just because you're gay, you want to bone me," Kyle scoffs.

"But would Craig think I did?" Kyle narrows his eyes at me.

"I can handle my fucking boyfriend."

"Dude, you told me he'd stopped you hanging out with me!"

"That doesn't excuse your lying to me!"

"I wasn't exactly prepared when you told me you were dating him!"

"You could have told me later, you moronic pusworm!" he snarls.

"Plus there's the whole not wanting to get my head smashed in by my teammates," I remind him, trying a new approach to calm him down. "Can you understand that?"

"Oh, so now you can't trust me to keep a secret? Thanks, doucheface."

"Can you keep your lovers' tiff down?" Ike yells from his room. "I have a big day of sitting on the internet ahead of me!"

"Fuck off, Ike!" Kyle yells, but when he next speaks it's in a quieter tone of voice. "I trusted you."

"I know," I sigh, miserably. I hang my head. "I'm sorry."

"You know, I can count the number of people I told about me and Craig on my hand."

The guilt stabs my chest. I seriously fucked up. "I should have been honest with you."

"Damn right." With that, he closes the door in my face.

* * *

><p>I'm pretty distracted throughout the next few days, which seem to pass in a blur. I've given up on winning Kyle over for the time being – my efforts to even just rekindle our friendship are steadfastly ignored. I can't think how to apologise for what I've done and nor can the three unfortunate people I dragged in to the whole sorry mess to help me out.<p>

Ike insists that Kyle's just being moronic and that he'll get his head out of his ass eventually, but not to hold my breath. He's tried to talking to Kyle about it, but got a copy of The Divine Comedy to the head for it. He's a little bit distracted with his other, more pressing family problems at the moment – like the three thousand dollars his dad lost gambling when he went out with my parents at the weekend.

Wendy and Bebe are both trying to help, but suggest completely different things. Wendy advised me to let Kyle sulk it out for a while and try to not let it get to me. "That's just how Kyle is," she said, smiling apologetically. "When he's pissed about something that he can't complain or protest away, he doesn't know what to do."

Bebe, on the other hand, thinks I need to prove the strength of my feelings for him and that then he's sure to come around. She keeps slipping florist brochures and chocolate shop catalogues into my bag at school. When Wendy told her that Kyle couldn't be won over with something so cliché, it just seemed to make things worse. Now she's ordering me to deliver myself as a strippogram and searching the internet for tearaway costumes for me.

On top of all that, my parents are starting to express dissatisfaction with South Park. Apparently their hedonistic adventures over the past couple of weekends have sparked an interest in the more reckless side of life and now they're sick of this quiet little mountain town. I keep catching them looking at Las Vegas apartments. When probed about what they'd do without their jobs, Dad witters on about being a professional gambler whilst Mom talks excitedly about palmistry and tarot and how it's her true calling now. Shelly doesn't care – she's formulating plans to move in with her boyfriend, so what the parents choose won't affect her so much.

I could say that my friends are supporting me through this tough time, but that would be what is commonly known as a lie. Cartman didn't bother asking about what I did on Saturday night in the end, but did yell at me for not asking after his hot date. So I asked if he got a rash from fucking a bottle of hot sauce. Kenny said sorry for not being there when I needed him, but when I started moaning about the problems with my family he developed a disturbing twitch under his eye. That was more than enough to make me stop.

Butters has tried to be helpful, but we're so different that what he thinks are perfect solutions seem ridiculous to me. When I first told him about my parents wanting to uproot us again, he sent them a pamphlet about the decline of morality in the city. They doubled their efforts to move there. Next he suggested I get a teddy bear costume and make up a song and dance routine to change their minds. It was then that I started tuning out his recommendations.

I haven't told any of them about what happened at the party on Friday night.

One of them – I wasn't paying attention, so I don't know whose idea it was – had another fundraising idea. We're making our own newspaper, full of whatever crap comes to mind from what I can tell, and editing and printing it out at our booth. This is supposedly so that we can get cutting edge news in and stay up to date right to the second, but I think it's so Cartman can print insulting things about anyone who dares to not purchase a paper. The tactic is pretty effective. We're only a few minutes into the lunch break and we've already sold over a hundred copies.

I wrote about Monsanto's various ethical issues, particularly how they hire ex-CIA officials to infiltrate and spy on animal rights groups. Normally, I'd be all over a new vehicle to bring their injustices to light, but my heart isn't in anything any more. I'm a little surprised that Cartman let it in, but it was probably the only entry of substance in the entire paper.

"Oh, HELL NO!" Cartman suddenly screams. I wish I wasn't sat next to him. "What the hell do you assholes think you're doing?"

He's pissed off at Craig's group, who have placed a table opposite us and have begun setting up their own printer and laptop. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what they're planning.

"Since you stole our bake sale idea, we're stealing this," Craig informs him. His smirk widens when he sees me looking over and he puts an arm around Kyle's shoulders deliberately. "And Kyle here is an awesome writer, so we're going to kick your ass at it."

"Aw, geez fellas, do we have to fight again?" Butters wails.

"This is an outrage!" Cartman screams, slamming his fists on our table. "We'll sue you!" I rescue the laptop before it can be crushed.

"Don't be so fucking stupid," Kyle says, hooking a thumb in a belt loop. His hair is tousled, as it has been ever since Saturday. I don't know if he's quit caring for it or Craig's been fucking him hard at every opportunity to prove a point to me. "You haven't copyrighted the concept of newspapers."

A crowd is developing around us. There's a quiet, one word chant starting - "Fight, fight, fight,".

"Besides," Clyde says as their printer starts to hum into action, "It's not as if you've actually made a real paper. Most of it is just Cartman bitching about everyone he hates."

"It is so a real paper," Kenny argues. "It's got important instructional shit in it. With diagrams and all that other crap."

It's then that I realise I don't know what Kenny wrote about. Judging by the sudden look of trepidation on Butters' face, it looks like he doesn't either. Tentatively, he picks up a copy of our paper and flicks through to Kenny's entry.

"Oh, hamburgers," he whispers. Glancing over his shoulder, I can see why. Aside from the fact that I'm damn sure Kenny didn't draw those diagrams and they're probably copyrighted, they're also probably too pornographic to distribute inside a school. Cartman peers over too, but he grins.

"Nice work, Kenny," he says, and holds up a paper towards Craig. Meanwhile, there's a surge in interest in the paper and Kenny is exchanging huge bundles of the paper for thick wads of cash. "Hey, Craig, you should get a copy of this. It'll teach you what to do with pussy when you eventually to see one."

"Spoken like a true virgin," Craig sneers. "For your information, I got laid last night. Did you?" My stomach clenches and my grip on the laptop tightens. Craig senses my discomfort and smiles cruelly at me. "Problem, Marsh?"

"I was just wondering if I could have a quick interview with you, actually," I reply, coolly – even though I can tell from how hot my face is that I've started to redden. Craig blinks. "Craig, the student body has often wondered why you're such a dick. Is it because you've got a gerbil rotting in your asshole, or does your tiny cock bother you?"

The assembled crowd sniggers. Craig pulls Kyle closer and gives me the finger. Kyle isn't looking at either of us, but he doesn't pull away. "Fuck you."

"I'll put that down as a little bit of both, then," I reply, typing on the laptop.

"Hey, Craig, you might want to get your hands off Kyle before everyone thinks you're boning him," Cartman says. Craig grins, but Kyle freezes.

"I am boning Kyle," he informs Cartman and probably everyone in the school. "Several times a night. Once in your backyard, too."

"What the fucking fuck?" Cartman screams. Kyle throws Craig's arm off his shoulders and rounds on him.

"What?" Craig asks, trying to wind an arm around Kyle's waist. "That was your idea-"

"What part of 'I don't want the whole school, especially Cartman, to know about us' did you fail to understand?" Kyle yells.

"We'll be gone in less than a year, so who gives a fuck?"

"I do!"

"Hey, you assholes! What's this about you having gross gay sex in my backyard?" Somehow, Craig and Kyle manage to ignore Cartman's screams. I wish I could say the same.

"But your family already knows, so why do you care about what the dumbasses here think?"

"Oh, you want to bring my family into this?" Kyle snaps. I didn't notice before, but Kyle is really hot when he's angry. The flushes on his cheeks is a welcome highlight to his face, making them even more distinctive than usual. "My family wouldn't know if you hadn't been so obvious!"

"I didn't hear you complaining at the time!"

"Because you don't fucking listen to me!"

"Maybe if you bitched at me a little less-" Kyle storms off, flipping Craig off from behind his back. Craig glances at him, at the booth and at the watchful crowd, then follows him with a sigh. Cartman seizes the laptop.

"Extra, extra!" he yells. "Craig's fucktoy Kyle is super butthurt! Read all about it in our paper in five minutes, people!"

Clyde and Token, who are still sat behind their booth, look at each other. Neither says anything, but they both look shellshocked. I wonder if they knew about Craig and Kyle, and whether they'll be up to running the newspaper by themselves.

* * *

><p>"All right, men," Cartman says, standing before a giant flip chart. He demanded we all come over to his basement to discuss a very important operation. This meeting has been planned with military precision – each of us has a seat in front of the flip chart and he's cleared all the usual crap from his basement. When asked about it, he just said it would be distracting and that we would need all our attention for his awesome plan. Even the usual tang of Cheesy Poofs is gone from the air. And, speaking of the military, Cartman has decked himself out in an officer's uniform, complete with a riding crop which he is using to point at things and snap menacingly. I really hope this uniform has never been used for anything sexual. "Yesterday, we found out some very important news: Craig and Kyle are buttfucking."<p>

"What the hell does-" I start, but Cartman cuts me off with a wave of his whip.

"Questions at the end, hippie, and you'll raise your hand when you want to talk!" he snaps. "As you are all aware, Craig sucks hairy donkey balls. Kyle also sucks, but he sucks normal balls. Literally." Cartman sniggers at his joke and glares when he realises me, Kenny and Butters haven't joined in. Butters is rubbing his hands together and mumbling, "Oh, dear."

"Since we all hate Craig and want to ruin his life, this presents an interesting opportunity for us. Interesting, but not without its risks." He clears his throat. "Gentlemen, today one of us is going to have to take one for the team."

"What?" I ask, incredulous. Cartman snaps the riding crop against the wall.

"Goddammit, hippie, I told you: questions at the end!" He sighs and resumes his lecture. "I suggest one of us steals Kyle from Craig. This will have two pluses: we'll make Craig miserable and we'll be able to use Kyle's Jew gold to help us win Garrison's challenge. The question that remains: which of us will have to gay it up?" Cartman lifts the cover of the flip chart to reveal the first page. It's a photo of Cartman and a chart split into two sections - "pros" and "cons". "Whilst I am doubtlessly the sexiest, most charming and the one who Kyle's probably thinking of when he's taking it up the ass, I'm just too manly and heterosexual to pass as gay. Everyone knows I'm knee deep in pussy, even when my pussy tide is at its shallowest."

"That doesn't even make any fucking sense," I tell him, but I don't get threatened with the crop this time. Cartman continues as if I didn't say anything.

"Also: I hate Kyle. So, whilst I'm the best option, I'm not fucking doing it." He peels the sheet away to reveal another one, this time focusing on Butters. "At first glance, Butters is the second most obvious choice, because he's the most homosexual." I resist the urge to correct him. "However, it's pretty obvious that they're both catchers, so Butters would suck at seducing him."

"Actually, I like to play left field," Butters tells him. "But we can't play baseball with just two people anyway."

"Thank you, Butters, for further proving that you cannot possibly seduce Kyle."

"Uh, you're welcome, Eric."

"So now we have a choice," Cartman continues, removing the Butters sheet to show one split between me and Kenny. Kenny, who had been lounging in his seat and checking his phone, suddenly sits up. "Kenny or Stan? As Kenny is a raging whore-"

"I'll do it," Kenny says. We all stare at him. He looks nervously at me. "I just – well, Stan shouldn't do it."

"Stan is pretty unbelievable as a gay," Cartman says, nodding his agreement.

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"You're obviously a womanising hippie," says Cartman. "No one would believe that you'd pick Kyle's skinny ass over a mountain of boobs."

"Plus Kyle knows you're not interested after Friday night," Kenny says, derailing my argument against Cartman before it even began. I look at him incredulously.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Dude, I had to get his sorry ass drunk to forget about how you turned him down. And even that didn't work."

"I didn't turn him down!"

"Not what he said."

"Wait, what?" Cartman asks, glancing between me and Kenny. "Kyle made a move on Stan?"

"Yeah, and now he's heartbroken or some shit." Kenny shakes his head. "I don't think even he knows how he's feeling."

"But I didn't turn him down!"

"Stan, are you suggesting that you do want to ram Kyle's ugly ass?"

"Kyle's ass is fucking amazing," I snap, without thinking. The colour drains from my face. "Oh, shit. You'd better not fucking tell the guys on the football team or I will end you."

Cartman squints at me. "So, you're not straight?"

"Then why did you reject him?" Kenny asks, indignantly.

"He seriously thinks I'm not interested in him?"

"Yeah, he fucking seriously thinks you're not interested in him. I had to listen to him moaning for hours about what it must be about him that you don't like."

I stand up and grab my things. "I have to go now. See you."

"No!" Cartman roars, pushing me back down in my seat. "Stan, you can't be trusted to not fuck up fucking Kyle, so we will have to help you."

"Please don't."

"Go get flowers," Kenny tells me. "Bitches love that shit."

"Kyle's not a bitch!"

"You should get him a teddy bear that says 'I love you'," says Butters, who's relaxed considerably. "It'd be so sweet."

"Yeah, I'm not going to do that."

"Good. You need to tell him he's ugly and shit. He'll beg for your cock in his ass," says Cartman. I try to leave before they can impart any more advice, but they call after me as I leave.

"Wear leather pants to school tomorrow!"

"Beat up Craig!"

* * *

><p>Kyle's mom beams when she lets me into the house. She asks after my parents, saying that she hopes they're not really going to move. I grunt non-committally, too busy worrying about what I'm going to say to Kyle to really pay attention. Luckily, she doesn't take offence, and even pats me on the shoulder as we walk towards Kyle's room. She knocks, which is good since I'm probably too chicken right now.<p>

"Kyle!" she trills. "You've got a visitor, bubbeh!"

There's a gasp from inside and some weird clattering noises. Moments later, a flustered Kyle peeks his head out. His face falls when he sees me, but his mom doesn't seem to notice. She tells me to make myself at home and wanders off. Kyle moves away from the door but doesn't shut it in my face, which I interpret as an invitation to enter. He sits on the bed, crossing his legs as he does so, and stares stonily at me.

"So. Moving, huh?"

"How do you know about that?" I ask, closing the door behind me.

"My parents won't fucking shut up about it. They keep telling me to convince you to make them stay."

"Oh, right." I kind of hoped he'd been reading my tweets or something. "I don't know, it's probably too much work for them to actually go through with it. They come up with dumb plans all the time. Mostly, nothing comes of them. Listen, about last Friday-"

"Forget it," he says, abruptly. "Craig and I were going through a rough patch and I did some dumb shit.

"Oh." His words shred my vocabulary. "It's just – Kenny told me that you thought-"

"Stan," Kyle says, closing his eyes. "Forget it. We'll both be better off that way."

"I wasn't rejecting you," I say, the words stumbling into each other as I try to get them out before he cuts me off.

"I love Craig," he says, then exhales deeply. I can't hide the way his words cut me to the heart., but he somehow seems to not notice. Maybe he just doesn't care. "When I couldn't be around Cartman any more, he accepted me straight away. He kept me safe from all the dumb crap that happens in this town. He saw me as more than a nerd, more than the token ginger Jew."

"Okay," I say. He looks at me, tears collecting on his eyelids.

"Huh?"

"You're happily taken. I'm fine with that, although now that Cartman knows you and Craig are together he kind of wants me to split you up."

"Ugh. I wish I was I was surprised."

"But I don't want to force you two apart. Not if you're happy. But if you ever want to be friends, give me a call, okay?"

Kyle gapes at me as I leave. Seconds later, I hear the sound of something hitting a wall. As I walk home, my phone starts to ring.

"Hey, Ike," I say. "Did I piss your brother off more?"

"Apparently. He's now ranting about how you're the nicest asshole in the world and that you need to turn your jerkitude up."

"Is that a compliment or not?"

"I think he's really going to miss you if you move."


	13. Chapter 12

"Did you bone Kyle last night?" is how Cartman greets me the next morning. I scowl, which he correctly interprets as a negative. "Hey, we told you to take our advice. You'd have gotten laid for sure."

"Right, by beating up Craig whilst bringing Kyle flowers and teddy bears," I scoff. "I don't want to just get in his pants. I'd rather be his friend."

"Goddammit, hippie, getting in people's pants is supposed to be all you people do!"

"Sorry to break your fragile and totally inaccurate world view."

"What the hell does that even mean? Anyway, we've got to meet with Garrison about our punishment for selling porn yesterday."

I protest at the unfairness of me and Butters being punished alongside Cartman and Kenny, but Cartman is entirely unsympathetic. He barges into homeroom without knocking. Butters and Kenny are already waiting there, their expressions complete opposites. Butters' eyes are scrunched closed and he's squeezed both sets of his nails in his mouth. Kenny is simply lounging against the blackboard, his eyes half closed.

"All right, turdnuggets, well done on showing up," Garrison greets us as he enters the room. He yawns and slumps into his chair. "Jesus Christ, it's too early for dealing with your shit. Can any of you idiots think of a punishment so I don't have to?"

"No gym for a month?" Cartman suggests at once.

"Cleaning out the girls' changing rooms instead of Math?" says Kenny.

"Oh, jeez, please don't let it be flogging," Butters whimpers.

Garrison shakes his head and stares bitterly at his cup of coffee. "I knew I should have put a shot of whisky in this. Stan, do you have a not completely stupid idea?"

"You could make us protest Funland – you know, the new theme park? They kill a cow every day on a sacrificial alter to appease the god of fun."

"Nice try, hippie, but I heard you and Wendy talking about how you're already going to do that tonight." He taps his mug thoughtfully. "What you should really do is something that'll help you raise more funds for the school trip. And humiliate you all completely, of course."

"You could put us at the bottom of a cheerleader pyramid," says Kenny, his eyes lighting up. I don't think he was listening to Garrison. "Having to look up all those skirts would be terrible."

"Excellent idea, Kenny." Kenny grins, but I'm pretty sure Cartman and Butters' looks of abject horror are perfect mirrors of my own. "You can all be cheerleaders. I'll arrange for your outfits, training and for you to perform at a game, and you can get people to sponsor you."

"I am against this. Like, for seriously," Cartman says, but Garrison just waves him away.

"That's the point of punishments, dumbass."

* * *

><p>Luckily, it's going to take Garrison a while to sort out our punishment – so we'll have at least this weekend without having to worry about it. Wendy was terribly amused by the whole idea and spent a lot of our time protesting teasing me about whether or not I've got the thighs for a skirt. I totally don't, and it's actually worrying me – since it can't be a football game we cheer at, is it going to be basketball? Is Kyle going to lose all interest in me forever when he seems me squeezed into a miniskirt?<p>

I'm lounging on my bed, worrying about this and the success of the protest, when my phone buzzes. I pick it up, expecting a message from Wendy about our failure, but it's from Kenny.

_Get ur ass here in leather pants if poss_

I stare at it, dubiously, before responding:

_What's with your leather pant obsession?_

Not that I'd ever own or ever will own a pair of the things. I'm all for using all the parts of an animal, but I'd rather they were used in useful, functional ways. My phone buzzes again.

_Spandex works 2. _

My response to this is short and blunt: _No_.

Kenny replies quickly: _Whatever just get ur ass here. Kyle wont shut up about u_

This changes everything. I peel off my clothes, sweaty from hauling signs and setting up displays, and set to work trying to find the hottest clean outfit in my wardrobe. I tug on some jeans that will at least give me an ass and pair it with a royal blue t-shirt. Mom always coos about how it brings out my eyes. I just hope that's not bullshit.

I dash out of the door, barely pausing to tell my parents that I'm going to hang with Kenny and Kyle. Dad says something cringe worthy about telling Kyle he said yo, but I try to eradicate it from my mind. I'm too busy trying to wring more info from Kenny:

_What's Kyle been saying about me?_

I'm hopeful when my phone buzzes again, but Kenny quickly shoots down my request: _Fuck no. I'm sick of hearing about u i am not repeating all that shit. R u coming?_

_Yeah,_ I reply. _En route now._

It's Kenny's mom who answers the door when I arrive, clutching a steaming mug of hot cocoa with a suspiciously alcoholic scent to it. Unlike Kyle's mom, she doesn't ask after me and lets me head on up to Kenny's room. Even if I hadn't been here before, I'd be able to find the room easily – Kenny and Kyle are singing along noisily to some song I don't know. I barge straight into the room. Kyle ceases singing as soon as I enter, but Kenny continues on obliviously.

Kenny's room is much the same as usual, by which I mean there's no square inch without a picture of tits in it and everything is generally dishevelled, but there is one noticeable difference: the number of empty beer cans is littering the floor is even higher than usual. From the way Kyle leaps up and throws his arms around me, I deduce that they've been hitting them hard together.

"Dude! You made it!" he squeals, and pulls me over to the bed to sit beside him – at least, I assume that's his intention right until he lays his head in my lap. "How did your sticking it to the man go?"

"Uh, the protest was...okay, I think," I say, thrown by his friendliness. "Not that I'm complaining, but aren't you pissed at me?"

"I read your article," he says, his eyelids drooping. "About Monsanto. Those guys are complete douches."

"I, um, agree." Kenny keeps singing along to the song, still happily oblivious to Kyle snuggling up to me and talking politics.

"But Stan, why do you focus on animals? Aren't the needs of real people more important than some cows being killed?"

"A lot of people take that attitude," I say. "But really: if I don't focus on animal needs, who will? It's not like they can speak for themselves and they're so easily dismissed. Most people don't know

about all the shit animals can be put through – there are these jerks who make surgical staples and demonstrate them on dogs by slicing them open, stapling them back up and then letting them die, and they admit to killing about a thousand dogs a year – but no-one hears about it, so no-one cares. It's sick."

I realise that I've been ranting a little and glance down at Kyle, expecting the usual glazed over expression people adopt when I talk about such things. Instead, he's smiling at me. "I hadn't thought about it like that. And I'd never heard about the dogs."

"Yeah, well, their PR firms ensure that."

"Yawn," Kenny says, stretching exaggeratedly. "Is this how nerds sexy talk?"

"Fuck you, Kenny," Kyle says, but it's softly spoken. He hops up. "I'm going to piss."

"I'll tell Fox News," says Kenny as Kyle heads out. He shakes his head at me once he's gone. "Before you got here, he was all 'Stan blah blah this', 'Stan derp derp that'. I thought it'd just be a matter of leaving you two alone with a bottle of lube..."

"Why have you been trying to get Kyle pissed?" I ask, kicking one of the emptied cans.

"'Cause Cartman said you weren't going to try getting into his pants any more and he wanted me to do it instead. Fat fucking chance with Kyle cooing over you every two seconds. Plus Kyle's kind of fun to drink with."

"He is?"

"When he's not worried about what-the-fuck-ever Craig thinks," says Kenny, his expression sour. "Them boning does explain a lot." He takes a swig of his drink. "But he damn well kept it a secret."

I neglect to mention that I was entrusted with that secret and ask for a beer. It's one of those cheap beers which absolutely has to be drunk cold, but it's now lukewarm. I suffer through the unpleasant bitterness. Kyle returns and smirks, taking a seat beside me again.

"Talking about me?"

"Yeah, about your sweet ass and how it's too good for Craig," says Kenny, chugging his beer. "Right, Stan?"

"I respect Kyle's decisions," I say, leaning back and shrugging my shoulders a fraction.

"Boring," Kenny says, feigning a yawn.

"So, Stan, are you seriously moving?" Kyle asks, fixing his big blue eyes on me. I pinch the bridge of my nose and groan.

"I have no fucking clue. My parents seem to be taking it as seriously as they take anything – that is, by ignoring the facts and making decisions on impulse."

"Do you want to move?" Fuck no, not right now, not when he's looking at me like that.

"No, but that won't stop them."

"Have you tried reasoning with them?"

I laugh bitterly. "I might as well reason with the washing machine, and that's being generous."

"So what you really need is a multi-pronged, multi-faceted line of attack," Kyle says. I have no idea what he means but I find myself nodding anyway. "Make it into an all-singing, all-dancing extravaganza. Make a powerpoint. Make posters. Don't let them forget all South Park has to offer."

"Sweet fuck all?" Kenny suggests. He's settled down in a beanbag with a porno mag. I can only pray that he doesn't jerk off in front of us. Kyle scowls.

"No," he snaps, then turns back to me and continues speaking softly. "Remind them that this is your final year of high school, that you need stability. If you leave now, you won't even have played any games whilst on the football team – and you could really use something like that for your college applications."

"Yeah," I agree.

"Switching schools now would only inhibit your ability to get a strong GPA. Then there's the factors of letters of recommendation – how can you expect to get a decent one from someone you've barely met?"

"How's he going to get a good one from Garrison?" Kenny asks, flicking through the pages of his magazine. "He'll just cut out something from TV Weekly again."

"Garrison is malleable. I wrote my own damn letter and got him to sign it and send it off." Kyle grins at me. "I don't think he even bothered to read it."

"Holy shit," Kenny says, throwing the magazine aside. "So if I wrote something saying I was Superman and a world famous porn star, he'd send it to colleges?"

"Probably."

"Do you get free money for being a superhero or a sex god?"

"No, there are no scholarships for either of those things," Kyle says, picking up another can of beer.

"That fucking blows."

"I'm not sure it'll be enough to convince my parents, but I'll try," I tell Kyle. I'm really touched that he's trying to help me out, even though I'm not exactly his favourite person right now. "I think they just want to gamble all day and shit."

"They can do that on the internet. That way, they won't have to fry in the ridiculous Las Vegas heat."

"The internet doesn't give them complimentary cocktails to make them keep playing."

"So stock the fridge with some premixed drinks."

Damn, he's smart. "I might have to. Thanks, dude."

"Bored now," Kenny announces. "And we're running low on beer. Let's go to a strip club." Kyle and I exchange a look. "What?"

"I don't give a crap about boobs," Kyle reminds him.

"So? They never ID, the drinks are cheap and you can get a steak for five dollars."

"Oh, well when you put it like that...I still don't want to go."

"Awesome," Kenny says, pulling his jacket on. "Let's head out."

Kyle grumbles but starts getting ready to leave, so I follow their example. As we head off, Kenny regales us with stories about his favourite strippers at this club. I'm busy contemplating gagging Kenny if he keeps talking about Honey Star's latex nurse outfit when I spot a strange shape in the sky. I shield my eyes from the low sun's glare with a hand and squint at it. It seems to be getting bigger by the second.

Feeling like an idiot, I suddenly realise that it's not growing – it's getting closer, and it seems to be falling in our direction. With a yell I push Kyle out of the way, falling on top of him in the process. He grunts as our heads slam together as we topple to the ground, then stares at me in confusion. There's a loud crash and a quickly muffled scream behind us. I acted just in time, but it sounds like Kenny wasn't so lucky.

"Oh my god, they killed Kenny!" I yell, surveying the scene. There's only one way to really describe the thing which fell from the sky, stupid as it'll seem. It's the cheesiest, most stereotypical UFO ever – a big chrome disc with a clear dome on top. The rim is covered with flashing lights.

"You bastards!" Kyle shouts.

"Are you okay?" I ask, brushing some of his hair aside to check his head for any cuts.

"Yeah," he breathes. His chest is heaving against mine. It's much nicer than the way the bush branches which are scratching at me. "But – damn – visitors again?"

"Huh?" I run a finger over where our heads collided, checking for bumps. I'm scared I might have given him concussion. "Are you sure you're okay? Do you feel dizzy?"

"I'm fine," Kyle replies, snapping a branch that was scraping my face and throwing it aside. "Let's check out the UFO."

"You think that's a good idea?"

"Safer than us lying here, totally oblivious to whatever might come out of that ship."

"Oh, yeah. Right." I scramble to my feet and give Kyle a hand up. He strides towards it without the slightest sign of fear on his face. Getting on his tiptoes, he peers inside the dome.

"Looks like it's empty," he tells me. "Must have fallen off a mother ship by accident." He brushes his coat, which has accumulated some dirt and tiny leaves. "What shall we do now? You know, since we don't have to go to a crappy strip club?"

"Oh, yeah." I lean against the space ship and mull it over. "Hey, think we could get inside this thing?"

"Maybe. Why?"

"We could totally steal it and go rescue those cows from Funland!"

"Yeah! These things usually have beams which means loading them inside will be a cinch."

"Usually?" I ask, as Kyle starts tugging at the dome. I walk around the UFO, looking for a door.

"Yeah, I've seen a few in my time," he says, offhandedly. "Can't figure out how to get this one open, though."

"There doesn't seem to be in a way in," I say, after letting my fingertips brush the entirety of the UFO's circumference. There isn't so much as an indentation to hint at a possible entrance.

"Guess we won't be able to help the cows today," Kyle says, giving the dome a final yank.

"Aw, no," I moan, kicking the UFO. "This sucks, dude."

If the UFO understood story conventions, it would have burst open at that. Sadly, it was either too inanimate or too much of a jerk to understand, so we had to walk away. I threw it some hopeful glances over my shoulder as we walked, but it was no use. Our chosen route takes us past Funland, past the doleful cows tethered in an outside enclosure, which watch us pitifully as we walk by. Suddenly, Kyle grabs my arm and points at a nearby truck.

"Hey, we could rescue them with that!"

"Do you know how to hot-wire?"

"No, but Ike probably does. You get the cows free and bring them over, and I'll ring him for instructions."

I hop over the enclosure fence after checking for cameras and untie the cows. The gate of the enclosure is stiff, but after a few shoves it gives way. I call to the cows and they don't move an inch. I try mooing, but they just all stare at me judgementally.

"Damn you, cows, I'm just trying to help," I say, but they still don't move. "Freedom! Delicious freedom! Don't you want it?"

"Cows don't speak English, Stan," Kyle says. He's leaning against the enclosure fence and rummaging in his pocket. The truck is open now and the headlights are on. I'm seriously impressed.

"You managed that quickly."

"I'd like to claim that I'm just that awesome, but the key was in the ignition and the window was rolled down. Anyway. You're not managing to get the cows out of here?"

"I don't know how. Am I supposed to push them out of here? Carry them?"

"You really are a city slicker, aren't you?" He pulls out a bag of Cheesy Poofs, opens it and shakes it at the cows. Suddenly, with the promise of food, they're putty in his hands. They follow him into the truck, where he deposits the bag's contents. They peacefully munch on the food whilst he locks the back of the truck. I feel like my role as chief animal lover has been cast into doubt by his superior knowledge of cow stealing.

"Done," he says as he hops into the passenger seat. As soon as the door is closed, I put the pedal to the metal. Getting caught for grand theft auto and grand theft bovine would probably not impress any future employers, unless I resign myself to working for PETA. "Where are we taking them to?"

This was the part of the plan which I hadn't really considered. Where do wild cows live? Is there even such a thing as a wild cow? Trying to hide my lack of expertise, I gruffly reply, "Somewhere far from here. Somewhere they'll be safe."

"You haven't got a clue, have you?"

"Not as such, no. Mexico?"

"Dude. We haven't got enough food for ourselves or for them to last us on a trip that long. We'll just keep our eyes peeled for somewhere that looks inhabitable for them."

"Awesome." Kyle opens the glove compartment and grins.

"Sweet, real trucker hats!" he cries, pulling them out. They're creased and stained, but he still jams one on my head before putting one on himself. "This is the perfect disguise. If we had beer bellies and stubble, no one would ever suspect we weren't real truckers."

"Don't truckers generally drive alone?"

"Yeah, but I'm your trucking wingman."

"What the hell would a trucking wingman do? Tell the truck that the main trucker's a really great guy and got a huge supply of gas?"

"Screw you, Mister Tries-to-Reason-with-Cows."

He fidgets with the radio whilst I drive. Normally, I live by the rule that he who drives picks the music, but I can make an exception for Kyle as long as he doesn't pick anything too atrocious. He settles on a hip-hop station that wouldn't have been my choice, but I can live with. Especially since he does silly little hand gestures as he sings along. He knows the moves (as far as my inexpert eye can tell) but for some reason they just don't seem the same coming from a skinny white teenager.

"You know Kenny was trying to get in your pants tonight, right?" I ask when an ad starts playing.

"I suspected something was up when he didn't demand I pay for the beer. Cartman's doing?"

"Yeah. I told him I wasn't going to do it and he passed the buck to Kenny."

"And Kenny gave up on me? I'd be hurt if I didn't think that he probably got cold feet when he remembered I don't have anything resembling a rack."

"You're not mad at him?"

"Dude, it's Kenny. It's not the first time he's tried to get in my pants. Plus, he'd love it if Craig and I broke up."

"How come?"

"He says Craig made me boring."

"Oh," I reply, trying to sound as neutral as possible, but Kyle eyes me suspiciously.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm actually usually pretty good."

"Stan," he says, his voice flat yet commanding, "Tell me whatever it is you're thinking."

Since he's close enough to punch me and I would have no way to block it – at least, no way to block it that wouldn't endanger us both and risk running the truck from the road, I decide it's safest to comply. "It's just...Ike said the same thing."

"Oh. Yeah, I knew he thought that." He leans against the passenger door. "What do you think?"

"I've only ever known you whilst you've been with Craig," I say, trying to dodge the question.

"You still have an opinion on the matter."

"Yeah, but it's kind of biased." I quail under Kyle's gaze, even though it's uncritical.

"Spill. I'm sure it won't be worse than what I've heard before."

"He seems like an asshole and a boring one at that." I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead and try to stay detached from my emotions. Honestly, I hate thinking about Craig, especially in his role as Kyle's boyfriend, but I don't want to be all soppy and weak in front of Kyle. "But that doesn't matter. What matters is how you feel about him."

I curse myself. I just left the perfect opening for Kyle to talk about how great Craig is to him and how he loves him and how they'll get married on some tropical island and go on to have six super talented kids or some shit.

"I guess," is all he says in response. He shifts in his seat so his body faces forward, but he's looking out of the passenger window.

"But it was kind of douchey for him to out you both in the middle of school like that," I add.

"It really was!" Kyle says, jumping back into life. "And he was just all, 'You're overreacting, Kyle. Are you PMSing? Do you need a Hershey's Kiss?' and I was all, 'Fuck you and your dumbass stereotyping'!" He knocks the bobblehead figure on the dashboard with a wild gesture, making it nod in frantic agreement to everything he says.

"Then he had the gall to act like I was being the unreasonable one, got all pissed off when I said I didn't like being marked as his property and spewed some crap about needing to assert his dominance so that I didn't...elope...with..." His words slow to a halt as he glances at his surroundings. "Uh. ...You."

"This is hardly some romantic getaway," I remind him. "The only thing protecting us from the sounds of cows shitting and farting on each other is this radio station. If we lose signal, we'll be screwed."

"I really doubt that he'll see it that way."

"Unless he's installed a camera on you, he won't be seeing anything. So relax."

It quickly becomes obvious that Kyle, though very talented in other areas, is not so great when it comes to relaxing. He shifts in his seat and changes his position every five seconds, rummages through the the door pocket every ten and bites his nails every thirty seconds. I'm worrying too, but more about what to do with the livestock – and, now I think of it, what to do with this truck. Will it be safe to return it to South Park? What if the owner's waiting with the police when we drive it back?

I tell Kyle about these issues and he grins. "It's cute how you have no idea how this shit works."

"I'm sorry, stealing trucks isn't a popular pastime where I'm from."

"All the truckers in South Park go to the happy hour at Jerry's on a Friday night. We just need to get it back before midday tomorrow and we've got nothing to worry about."

"And the cows? Where do we leave them?"

"Easy. Some grassy place near a river."

"Dude, you can work all that shit out in seconds and you're worried about boy troubles?"

"I've had a lot of experience in weird situations. I'm not so experienced in relationships." He reddens. "Not that I'm, you know, bad in them, or bad at the things associated to being in a relationship-"

"I get you."

"Yeah. Interpersonal relationships aren't really my strong point." I snigger and he punches me lightly on the arm. "What's so damn funny?"

"Calling it interpersonal relationships, dude. It's just..."

"Yeah?" he says, an edge to his voice.

"So you."

"I don't know whether to hit you again or not."

"It's a good thing. You're great."

He turns away quickly, gazing out of the passenger window again. "Even though I was a bit of a douche about you being gay?"

"Yeah. From what I heard, I got off lightly anyway."

"You're too damn nice to stay mad at."

"I'll remind you of that when I next piss you off."

He laughs and we fall into an easy silence. The song on the radio is laid back with a calm, reliable beat. Kyle bobs his head in time to the music, his curls bouncing with each nod. We've left the snow capped mountains of South Park and our surroundings are getting greener the further we go. It seems probable that we'll be able to find somewhere to drop off the stolen cows before sundown. What time we'll get back to South Park is a completely different matter, but we should be able to make our midday deadline.

The song ends, to be replaced with another which starts off easy but quickly gets heavier. I long for the return of the previous one, which was such a perfect soundtrack for the moment. I want to keep it on my iPod and listen to it a thousand times, reliving those perfect minutes every time.

Some time later – I have no idea if a few minutes passed or an hour – Kyle grabs my arm and points excitedly out of the window. "There!" he cries, grinning. "That'll be perfect!"

I pull over and survey the area. It's a vast expanse of unkempt grass, with a gently trickling stream . Here and there a few trees dot the landscape. As far as I'm aware, this will fulfil the cows' needs – if nothing else, it's better than certain death. We unlock the back of the truck. The cows show no signs of moving out, but the foul smell quickly comes out to assault my nose. I gag, which makes Kyle tut and tease me about being from a city again.

I'm sitting a good distance from the reeking truck, with Kyle standing beside me and asking if I need any smelling salts, when the cows finally realise that there's more food outside the truck than inside. They slowly clamber out of the truck and spread out across the field, then start munching on the fresh grass.

"Looks like our work here is done," says Kyle. "Will you be able to get back in the truck without fainting?"

"Yeah," I huff, but I'm not quite certain of that. I'm grateful when Kyle takes care of locking up the back of the truck, saving me from being exposed to that stench again. As he hops back inside, his phone rings. "Hi, Mom," he answers it. "Everything okay?"

"Where are you?" I hear her say. I don't know if the sound is way up on his phone or if she's yelling. "We just saw Kenny's parents who said you boys left hours ago but Ike says you've not come back-"

"Mom, relax," he groans. "I just went out for a walk with Stan."

"Oh, so you'll be fine to come home and check on Ike?" The colour drains from Kyle's face. I tap him on the shoulder.

"Ask if my dad's there."

"Is Stan's dad there?"

"He is, but that's not an answer to my question."

"Stan needs to have a word with him," Kyle gabbles and thrusts the phone at me. I hear his mom sighing as I take the phone.

"Hey, Stan," my dad says in his best 'cool dad' voice. "What's up?"

"Kyle and I are actually going to visit some strip clubs and party. Can you smooth things over with his mom?"

He chuckles. "Oh, sure, I totally understand. Hell, you got your debit card with you? Spend what you like and I'll repay you when you get back. You boys just have a good time, okay?"

"Thanks, Dad."

"On one condition..."

"Yeah?"

"Tell me who the greatest dad is?"

"You," I say, shaking my head at Kyle. "Can I go now?"

"Sure, sure. You boys have a good time!"

He hangs up. Kyle takes his phone back, still looking amazed at how smoothly that went. "Why do I get stuck with a parent who freaks out if I'm not in her line of sight for five seconds, whilst you get one who wants you to rack up huge bills partying?"

"I'd rather he was strict than getting drunk and doing dumb shit all the time."

"My mom started the American-Canadian war. Drunken antics really would be preferable."

"Damn. So what do you want to do now we have cash to burn?"

"As long as it doesn't actually involve a strip club, I'm fine with whatever."

"How about we rent a motel room, get loads of room service and watch whatever's on pay per view?"

"Sounds sweet."

* * *

><p>After driving for a while longer we come across a place which doesn't give off any dubious warning signs – like, say, rats running around outside or scantily clad women trying to wave down passing cars, which is apparently commonplace around motels. The more you know, I guess. We pull up outside a fairly generic hotel and head inside.<p>

"We want a room," I tell the attendant. "You got any left for tonight?"

She checks her computer and nods. I hand over my debit card, slipping a twenty dollar bill over with it, and ask if there are any complimentary upgrades available. I've wanted to try that for so long, ever since I heard about it. Part of me is expecting to get shot down with a frosty glare and a "Nice try, kiddo," but she checks her computer again and nods once more.

"I believe we can sort that out for you, sir." She brings me a key and I have to refrain from whooping with delight. "Suite 103, top floor."

Kyle, who missed my awesome slight of hand, is totally in awe. As soon as we're away from the desk he hisses at me, "How did you do that?"

I just smile knowingly, not wanting to lose my new air of mystery. We take the lift to the top floor, then dash like school kids fleeing home on the last day before the summer vacation begins. We burst the door open and the suite doesn't disappoint. We're immediately met by a lounge equipped with a spacious corner sofa opposite a large flatscreen TV mounted on the wall. There's a mini fridge stuffed with a range of drinks and snacks, including a luxurious chocolate cake. I'm tempted to eschew room service and just stuff my face with this.

"Dude, come see this!" Kyle yells. I expect him to be talking about something in the bedroom, but he pulls me into the bathroom as I walk past. Approximately half the room is occupied by a bath, and it's not a small room. "You could swim in it!"

"Not very far," I say, trying to inject humour into the conversation to draw my attention away from thoughts of Kyle in the bath. "And you probably shouldn't try diving into it."

"Ha, ha. Very droll," he says, and pulls me out and into the bedroom. "What's the rest like?"

He stops in his tracks as he gazes at the solitary bed. I swear softly. "Sorry, dude. I'll go see if there's anything else-"

"No, it's cool," he assures me. He jumps on the bed. "It's so bouncy!"

"Or I could sleep on the sofa-"

"Or you could stop worrying," he says, grinning. He pulls me onto the bed. It's soft and as bouncy as he says. The head of the bed is covered with pillows, which he quickly grabs and starts hitting me with.

"Aw, dude!" I cry, trying to shelter my head from the blows. "You know you're better at this than me!"

"That's what makes it fun!"

Once he's totally beaten me into submission, Kyle decides it's time for food and TV. We locate the room service menu and try to decide what would be most awesome. We choose pizza, fries and onion rings and flick through our TV options in the living room whilst we wait for it all to be brought up. Once we see that there's a Terrence and Philip stand-up show available to watch, it only takes a glance at each other as affirmation before we ordered it.

"We have to gorge ourselves on that kick ass chocolate cake as well," I tell him. Kyle goes to check it out. The admiring gasp tells me that we'll definitely be eating that later.

"That ganache looks so decadent. Man, the piping on it is really detailed, too."

"Uh, yeah. Totally."

He doesn't tease me for my lack of cooking know-how and we settle down on the sofa together. Naturally, Terrence and Philip excel, but I'm a little too distracted by the cute way Kyle curls up in his seat when he laughs to truly appreciate the show. Hell, I don't even notice when there's a knock at the door and just stare in confusion as Kyle dives off the sofa to go answer it.

The food is more attractive than I'd expect from a small hotel off the highway: even I can tell that the pizza hasn't just been formed with a premade base thanks to its irregular bumps, but what makes it awesome is the generous supply of glistening cheese on top. I fucking hate it when places skimp on the cheese or overcook it so it's barely noticeable. The onion rings are the perfect shade of golden brown, the coating of tiny crumbs delivering a delicious crispness to their texture.

I'm a little apprehensive about the fries, which are less uniform and show more imperfections than I'm accustomed to from the frozen fries from a bag Mom prepares for dinner, all of which are exactly the same width, but since Kyle is munching on them happily I dare to pop one in my mouth. The outside is crisp, just enough to give it a little satisfying crunch, but the inside is soft and fluffy. I can't stop myself grabbing a handful and shoving them in my mouth.

The food disappears faster than I would have thought possible – it's not as if the servings weren't generous – and I'm tempted to grab an icy bottle of Coke from the fridge to refresh my mouth after all that saltiness. Kyle baulks when I suggest it.

"I thought we were going to have that cake," he whines. "You promised me that amazing cake, Stan."

"Can't we have both?"

"At the same time? Do you hate your taste buds?" Seeing my confusion, he slowly explains. "They're both really sweet, but if you wash your mouth out with coke whilst you eat the chocolate cake, it'll seem less sweet and kind of boring."

"Oh. Right."

"Cake now, coke later," he says, decisively.

I do as bidden and fetch the sumptuous item. It's whilst eating the cake that I discover Kyle's secret gift. No, it's not his intellect, his morals, his ability to play Farmville without getting bored or even his ass. You know how when mere mortals like you or I eat chocolate cake, especially gooey chocolate cake, we're lucky if we walk away with a tiny crumb or two between the teeth and most likely get telltale chocolate smudges in the corners of our mouths? Kyle is completely immune to this plague. He shovels it away, with his hands no less, and looks as pristine after as he did before.

All good things must end and Terrence and Philip's show is no exception. With a yawn, Kyle stretches and checks his watch. A sharp inhalation of breath tells me it's probably quite late.

"I think it's probably sleepy time," he says, frowning. "Since we need to be back in South Park for a reasonable time tomorrow."

"You sure that you're okay with sharing the bed with me? I don't want to, like, impugn on your honour or anything-"

"Since no-one but us will know about it, I don't see how you could even if you fucked me senseless."

Damn. I don't think impugn means what I thought it meant. I nod sagely to cover my confusion and head into the bedroom. The bed sheets are already rumpled from our unfortunately chaste activities earlier. Kyle strips down to his boxers - "I'll feel gross wearing the same shirt all day today, all night tonight and then tomorrow," he explains – and tucks himself into one side of the bed. I draw the curtains as I fight for control over my body. Sure, Kyle's cool now, but seeing me with a huge hard-on might make him reconsider sharing a bed. I strip down to my boxers and t-shirt, because an extra layer might help hide any revealing shapes in my pants, then get into bed beside Kyle.

The sheets are a little cooler than the ideal. Kyle seems to feel the same way; he wriggles close to me whilst muttering about sapping my body heat. His hair tickles against my cheek and wafts the scent of coconut up my nose. I wonder if it'd be weird to check what shampoo he uses next time I'm over so I can keep smelling this loveliness.

"You better not forget me if you do end up running away to Vegas," he says suddenly, tilting his head up to look at me.

"How about you just stow away with me?" I joke. He snorts.

"I would melt," he says. "Also, it kind of sucks there. You shouldn't go. How can I convince you not to go?"

"Dude. You're already reason enough for me not to want to go."

"I bet you say that to all the boys you drive out of state and trick into bed."

"I have said that to one hundred percent of them, yes."

"And how many of these boys have you ensnared?"

"One."

"I feel so special. Didn't you even give that spiel to your boytoys in Portland?"

"Not one on one. I announced it at the annual Stan Lovers conference."

I smile at the absurdity of such a statement. Given how I slid through social groups, there was no-one special, nor any special someones, to make such an announcement to. I've actually not given them any thought since moving here until now. I feel a little guilty for such detachment, but I'm not shocked by it.

"It must have been rough leaving all your friends," Kyle says, softly. His eyes are half-lidded and he looks like he's drifting off to sleep. "Do you talk to them much?"

"Not really."

"Really? Not even over Facebook?"

"My Facebook usage is pretty much limited to sending you farmland animals, dude."

"Which you probably won't do when there's no risk of you facing my wrath any more."

"Nu uh. I will send poor, innocent animals to serve on your farm everyday that I can get online."

"My farm is awesome," Kyle says with a pout. "It's where all the cool animals hang out."

"Fine. I will send selected lucky creatures to your farm of dreams. Happy?"

"Not really." He sighs. "We'll drift apart. It's natural."

"No-"

"Stan," Kyle interrupts, "I know you probably won't mean to. But you're a popular football player. You'll get sucked into a new life. You won't have time to sentence animals to my farm."

"I'll make time. You can't predict what-"

"I don't have to predict. It's what's happened before." He rolls away from me and sits up in bed. "Lots of people move to South Park. All of them are happy to forget it as soon as possible."

"But I like it here."

"You've said it's fucked up. And you hate the weather."

"Yeah, but..." I flounder. I genuinely hate the thought of moving away, despite being frustrated with South Park's general South Parkness on frequent occasions since moving here. I can barely articulate it to myself, so I have to settle with a feeble, "It makes life more interesting."

"It makes life a pain in the ass. Especially if you have the misfortune to be around Cartman."

A crash of thunder makes us both jump. Kyle throws the bed sheets aside and dashes to the window. He lifts the curtain enough to peek out, then pushes them out of the way and climbs back into bed. A flash of lightning lights up the sky and illuminates our sleepy surroundings for a fraction of a second. Kyle counts the seconds under his breath until another blast of thunder announces its presence.

We move to the edge of the bed, the bed cover wrapped around our shoulders, and stare in awe at the scene outside. At least, Kyle does. I keep finding my eyes drawn to the sight beside me, beautifully illuminated by the lightning that splits the sky outside. As much as I'm enjoying Kyle's bare chest, his smooth skin almost glowing in the moments of bright white light, I can feel him shivering beside me.

"Cold?" I ask.

"Yeah, but if I wear my shirt it'll be totally gross tomorrow..." I pull my own off over my head and hand it to him. It's only then that I realise how chilly it's become, but I can't back down now. "But then you'll be stuck with my stinky sweat tomorrow, dude."

"It won't kill me," I say, although I'm secretly hoping it will smell of Kyle after. He slips it over his slight frame. It looks way too baggy on him, the short sleeves reaching his elbows, but I find it completely adorable. "Now I'll have to steal your body heat."

"That's fair," he says, leaning against me and snuggling closer as I wrap an arm around him. I'm intensely grateful for his warmth. We watch the storm until the skies settle, by which time Kyle is heavy against me, his ability to sit up drained. I gently pull us down into bed again, Kyle clinging close to me as we move. I struggle to ignore the siren call of his coconut scented hair, which keeps begging me to kiss it.


	14. Chapter 13

It feels like I've only shut my eyes for a few seconds when Kyle decides the best way to wake me up is by tickling. I flail ineffectively, trying to bat him away, but I'm no match for him. I roll over on to my stomach – and almost fall off the bed in the process. Kyle grabs me and pulls me back to safety.

"It's time for us to get going," he says. "Remember? We need to return that truck."

I mumble something even I can't decipher and bury my head in the pillow. I hear soft footsteps of Kyle departing, then the sound of feet on tiles. He must have gone to the bathroom. I snuggle back down in the bed covers, hoping to sneak in a few more moments of rest before he returns.

The covers are pulled back and icy water is poured on to my bare back, sending shivers all over my body. I leap up with a howl and get encapsulated in the fluffiest towel I've ever felt. It's even warm. I still glare sulkily at Kyle, who is hugging the towel around me.

"I had to get you up somehow," he says. I'm even more irritated when I realise that he's already dressed and I missed a potential show. "Are you capable of getting dressed and staggering into the truck? I can drive us back; it'll be quicker since I know the way better."

"Yeah," I say, wiping the last of the dampness from my skin before pulling my clothes back on. I try to be as provocative as possible, bending down and sticking my ass out in front of him, but there's no bite. I'm not surprised any more, but last night... Man, how am I supposed to feel about last night? That's more fun than I've ever had with anyone else, even though all we did was dick around. He just makes me feel so...good.

I pay off the bill as we leave, barely registering how much it totalled in the end, and we return to the truck. Now I'm back inside it and more awake I'm suddenly more concerned about the task ahead: are we really going to be able to get it back with no one noticing that it went missing? What's the jail term for borrowing a truck for a night, anyway?

"Where are you planning on going for college?" Kyle suddenly asks, interrupting my worries.

"Man, wherever will give me the best scholarship," I admit. "Anything to not have to give over my first born at the end, you know? How about you?"

"I don't know. I visited a lot over the summer, but...I'm not sure. It'd help if I knew what I wanted to study in the end, so I could pick a specialist school, but I've got no clue."

"You should do Environmental Studies with me. We can be eco-warriors when we grow up."

"Oh, please suggest that to my mom when I've got a camera handy. Her face will launch a thousand memes."

"Will your boytoy be tagging along to wherever you end up?"

"Get fucked. But no, for your information, he wants to stay in this state and I want to get the hell out."

"So he'll be sending you love letters and having roses delivered to you every week?"

"Like Craig could write a love letter," Kyle snorts, but he's smiling. "He can't manage a love text."

"So...lots of roses?"

"I don't know if we'll be together then."

"I thought you...you know?" I'm pushing it, I know, and I can't even get the words out. I'm grateful when Kyle doesn't probe me.

"It's complicated."

"I get you," I lie. I lack the cojones to ask further and I expect him to shut down, or at least change the conversation, but he simply heaves a troubled sigh before continuing.

"He's a great guy, despite what you've heard and how he's acted around you. I'm closer to him than to anyone. But..." He glances over at me, but I have no idea what kind of input is expected or wanted. It's pretty awful of me, but hearing about the cracks in their relationship is exhilarating. "I don't know.

"I love him, but I don't know if I love him like like a person I can see myself waking up to each morning, or like a good friend. And I feel shitty because what if I'm wrong? What if I don't love him like he loves me and I'm just stringing him along until I eventually break his heart? Fuck, he doesn't deserve that."

His eyes rest on me again, expectantly, but I'm no closer to having something constructive to say from before. "Damn," I say, lamely. "That sucks, dude."

"Yeah," he replies with another laboured sigh. I can tell I've let him down with my pitiful response. "I just feel like such an asshole."

It's times like this that I wish I'd done more than just fool around with other guys. When people are baring their souls, talking about romance and love and heartbreak, all I can do is just sit there, uselessly, like I'm doing right now. It's only since coming to South Park that I've had any feelings more intense than mild lust. Naturally, I can't share those experiences with Kyle, as they all revolve a redhead he's more than a little familiar with.

"If you were an asshole, you wouldn't care about hurting him," I remind him.

"I guess." He grins, suddenly. "Kenny says you're going to be waving pompoms soon."

"Ugh, yeah. It's all Kenny's fault, too. Damn pervert."

"You'll be wearing the usual uniform, I assume?"

"With Garrison behind it? I'll be lucky if it's not skimpier than the usual."

"Bet your fans will love that."

"Not that I have any fans, but no. I will look absolutely terrible." I shudder involuntarily. It's actually been bothering me that I will look so terrible – almost as bad as Cartman, in comparison to skinny Kenny and small Butters. Their small frames will be girlier, less ridiculous, than my thick football build, which will make the tiny tank top strain. I can't even bear to envisage how my muscular legs will look in a pleated mini-skirt.

"So modest."

"You won't be saying that if you see me in it," I say, slumping in my seat. "I am way too muscular to be a cheerleader. It's going to be hideous."

"Even if it is – which I find unlikely, honestly – you've got to remember that you won't be alone. Cartman will be there, jiggling hypnotically, his fat rippling. Kenny will probably moon people or just let it all hang out. It wouldn't be the first time. Butters is going to freak the fuck out and cause a scene, if not cause outright devastation. Everyone will be too busy fleeing the wreckage to notice you."

"You're just trying to comfort me."

"Actually, I'm trying to sweeten you up. I was bitching to Garrison about the heterosexism of only having girl cheerleaders and how gay guys deserved male ones. So, uh, this may be partially my fault." He bites his lip and glances over at me. I can't muster up even the slightest inkling of annoyance when he rests those big blue eyes on me. "But I didn't want you to have to wear girl outfits! That's really not my thing."

"And was Craig going to be part of your cheerleader menagerie?"

"He wasn't very enthusiastic about the idea. Are you mad at me?"

"It's not your fault Garrison liked the idea. Don't worry about it."

* * *

><p>And that's how I ended up in this predicament. Yeah, we got the truck back fine. Yes, we did get trained to do a damn cheerleading routine and we did it damn well, if you must know. And yeah, my parents managed to find an all-night estate agency in Vegas that Friday night. They got a new mortgage and a t-shirt. Our house is up for sale.<p>

What they don't tell you about South Park in the brochures: it picks its residents. I didn't make the cut and neither did my parents. Like countless families before, we've been cast aside.

And Craig still won't fucking let up.

Oh, yeah. That part. I knew I skipped something. Hell, when you're moments from having your head caved in, you're allowed to miss a few minor details?

Here's the Spark Notes: we performed at Kyle's game. Kyle's team utterly annihilated the opposing team, mostly thanks to Kyle's general amazingness on the court. Yeah, I should be a sports commentator, right?

So everyone is cheering and yelling except the loser team, but who gives a crap about them? I run across the court, stupid outfit forgotten, and lift Kyle into the air. I swing him around, oblivious to everything except his huge smile and the way he's got his arms wrapped around my shoulders. Then?

Reader, I kissed him.

I dipped him down, pressed my mouth on to those soft lips of his – and damn, they were soft, and tasted just like his skin smelled. Kyle's arms tightened around me, clinging needily, wanting more. I gave him it – I slipped my tongue into his mouth, stroking his tongue, exploring – like I wanted to know exactly how Kyle felt inside and commit it to memory evermore. Like it'd be my last chance.

Since he then punched me in the chest, yelled at me and didn't voice any disagreement when Craig told me this would be settled outside, South Park style, I've come to the conclusion that it was my last chance. I was still pretty pleased with myself – kissing Kyle was pretty fucking awesome – until Kenny explained what that entailed.

Oh, yeah. The others stayed loyal to me since, as Cartman said, that was the most angry anyone has ever seen Craig and it was totally fucking awesome, if totally faggy. I'm pretty thankful for that.

A whistle is blown. I see Cartman charge forward at Craig. Kenny, Butters, Token and Clyde all tear off in different directions. I'm tempted to follow their lead, until I see Kyle storming intently towards me. I'm not fool enough to try outrunning Kyle. I hold my bat up placatingly, my free hand raised palm outwards.

"Dude, I don't want to fight," I yell. I'm not sure if he can hear me over the crowd on the bleachers, which is obviously dismayed by the lack of blood and guts being spilled and voicing it with screams for death.

"Should have thought of that before, Marsh!" Kyle shouts back. He swings his bat at me and I'm forced to use my own to block it. He leans in close as he pulls his bat back, ready to try and hit me again.

"I really don't want to hurt you," I say, pleading, catching his next swing before it can hurt me. It's true – but those pillow fights have taught me that I'm the one who really ought to be afraid here.

"What the hell was that about?" he asks, glaring at me. His hits are easy to block – too easy. "Back there. Why-"

"Because I've been crazy about you since I first saw you," I confess. Kyle's eyes widen for a second, then get scrunched up as he hits my bat with more vigour than ever before.

"And now my boyfriend, who incidentally isn't going to fucking leave me to fuck off to-"

"I don't want to move!"

"What's the point in getting tangled up with me? It'd never work."

"Why not? You're perfect."

I don't anticipate the brightness of his eyes as I say that, and he swings his head so that I can't see more of his expression. I want to throw our bats down and hold him, convince him that he's just as great as I say and more.

"No, Stan," he says, shaking his head and striking me on the side. It aches where I've been hit, but it's nothing compared to the ache in my heart. "You're the all American ideal, the hot quarterback who can pick up and break hearts as he pleases, who'll course through life a huge success-"

"I'm not – I don't -"

"Shit," says Kyle, his eyes fixed on something behind me. Craig's rapidly approaching. Behind him, Cartman lies in the snow. I can't see the other four contestants and I'm not about to search for them. "Craig, don't do anything too-"

"You won't like your new boyfriend when I've mashed up his face, Kyle," Craig snarls, brandishing his bat at me. My bat reverberates when I block the first blow. Kyle really must have been going easy on me.

"What do you mean, 'new boyfriend'?" Kyle asks, stepping between us.

"I'm not dumb," Craig snaps, stepping around him and bringing his bat down in the direction of my head – Kyle blocks it with his bat without even looking at it. I'm trying not to piss myself. "I know you've been fucking around-"

"I have never fucked around, you asshole."

"Whatever." Craig pulls his bat back. "Get out of the way. If I need to hit you to get to him, I'll do it."

"No!" With a surge of energy I didn't realise I possessed, I haul Kyle to the side and swing my bat at Craig. He doesn't manage to fully block it; it grazes his chest. Eyes narrowed, he stabs me in the stomach with his bat. I stagger back, winded, but I won't stop protecting Kyle.

"Hey, Tucker!" It's Kenny, back from God knows where. He jumps up and down in the distance, waving his bat in the air. "I was the one fucking Kyle! Not Stan!"

"You fucking did not!" Kyle yells, but Craig's momentarily distracted enough for me to knock the bat from his hands. He turns to yell at me, but I sweep my foot under his ankles and push him to the ground, Judo style.

I'd like to say that after that glorious victory, Kyle ran back to me, we embraced again and it was even hotter than before. But Kyle isn't impressed so easily – would I be so crazy about him if he was? He just strides off, flinging his bat aside. It hits Kenny in the head. A red arc shoots from his ear as he topples over.

"Oh my God!" I scream. I run over to my fallen friend, whose loyalty may have saved my own life – I don't know how crazy Craig is. "You killed Kenny!"

He doesn't reply.

* * *

><p>"You'll meet someone new," Bebe says, trying to comfort me. I'm slumped, face down, on her bed. I'm almost hoping to suffocate, or at least fall asleep and forget the past few hours. She strokes my back comfortingly. "There'll be lots of cute boys in Vegas. Going shirtless. Shirtless boys as far as the eye can see!"<p>

"I want Kyle," I mumble, but only the mattress can hear me as I talk into the bedsheets. "I just want Kyle."

"Tanned, shirtless boys," Bebe says, dreamily. I hear someone's tongue click – presumably Wendy's – but Bebe doesn't seem to notice. "Toned, probably. With beach blond hair!"

"I want a skinny redhead," I tell the bed, still not budging from my position. "Who would melt in Vegas."

"If you whittle away all the superfluous shallowness, there's some wisdom in what Bebe's saying," says Wendy. "You'll be moving away – when is it, again?"

"A week or so," I reply, sitting up just enough so that my words aren't eaten by the bed once more. "My parents still have to arrange for another moving van."

"So you'll be moving across the country soon, and next year you'll be going to college – and even you don't know where that will be. It's not exactly sound foundations for a relationship."

"I don't care."

"Not to mention that you'll be meeting lots of new people in these new places, some of whom you may well like as much as you like Kyle or more."

"I won't," I say, decisively. I know I sound like a petulant child, but I'm absolutely certain that there won't be anyone in my life who I like as much as I like him. I can't explain it, no matter how much I dwell on it, but I feel this connection with Kyle that everyone else in the world is lacking.

"Some of them might even have asses cuter than Kyle's!"

"You're being ridiculous, Bebe," I snort. "Kyle's ass could have been carved by Botticelli. It cannot be beaten."

"That is so wrong on so many levels!" Wendy cries, running her fingers through her hair. "Botticelli was a painter, Stan!"

"Kyle's ass was worth a career change."

"Even if it were, it would look awful because that wasn't his specialisation!"

"I guess Kyle's ass is so awesome, it just defies reason."

"Aw, that's cute," Bebe coos. "You should tell him that!"

"I'm begging you, Stan, do not tell Kyle that you think his ass was carved by Botticelli."

"Then what should I do?"

"Apologise?"

"But I'm not sorry," I whine.

Bebe fiddles with her smartphone whilst Wendy scrunches her eyes closed in frustration. She takes a series of deep breaths until she relaxes, but tenses as she opens her eyes again. "Dammit, Stan, you don't think what you did was a little inappropriate?"

"More like a little awesome. I'll be gone soon and Craig will keep an even tighter rein on Kyle-"

I'm cut short by an eardrum shattering squeal emenating from Bebe. I didn't think humans could reach that pitch. She hops up from the bed, still squealing and now clapping her hands. My eyes meet Wendy's and suddenly, we're back on the same wavelength: wondering if we should be calling for urgent medical assistance.

"Uh, Bebe, sweetie?" Wendy says, uncertainly laying a hand on her girlfriend's shoulder.

"Oh my God, oh my God!" Bebe trills, finally able to speak again. She throws her arms around Wendy, then holds one out to me. "Group hug, group hug for awesomeness!"

"Has someone finally made a drug that can be taken over the internet?" Wendy demands.

"Nooooo, but the news! The news!" Bebe waves her phone at Wendy. "Best news ever for today!"

"What news?" I ask, sullenly resisting the hug.

"You know, the – didn't I tell you? Just now?"

"Nope."

"Craig's listed on Facebook as single!"

I'm in a hugging mood now. I leap up and fling my arms around Bebe and Wendy. Bebe and I hop up and down excitedly, our speaking abilities reduced to squeals of delight. Wendy looks less impressed.

"You're still going to be leaving the state!" Bebe and I take no notice, continuing our dolphin impersonations. "Kyle's currently really mad at you!"

"I'll win him back, with the most romantic thing I can think of!" My mouth hangs open as I realise I don't know what the most romantic thing I can think of is. "Uh...buying him loads of Farmville cards! And spreading them out on his lawn to say...to say..."

"Yes? Yes?" Bebe urges me.

"'You're cool!'"

"Awwww!"

"I think 'Sorry' might be more appropriate," Wendy says, dryly. "Not to mention the fact that number of cards – at what, five dollars each? - would set you back hundreds of dollars."

"You're saying it's not a good plan?"

"It is a terrible plan."

"You could always send a strippogram," Bebe reminds me.

"Oh, yes. I'm sure Kyle's mom wouldn't be remotely suspicious about him turning up at her house in a police uniform."

* * *

><p>I go home to think about how I'll win Kyle around, now he's newly single. I mean, he said himself that he can't stay mad at me, right? And he's definitely worth trying a long distance relationship with. I'll get any job – actually, not any job, I still won't whore myself out – but almost any job, just to earn the plane fare to go visit Kyle. And maybe we can go to the same college.<p>

It's probably best that I think about it, rather than rushing over. Kyle will need time to let off steam, I know that much, and Bebe's strippogram idea is still the best one I've got right now. Since I don't want to be exposing vulnerable areas to Kyle whilst he's mad, it's also a definite no.

Someone knocks at my door. I want to be left alone, so I grab a textbook and make it look like I'm studying before calling, "Yeah?"

"I've got some exciting news," Mom says, bobbing her head around the door and grinning. Her grin seems off, somehow. Have she and Dad been drinking again? It's like they're the teenagers, seriously. "We got the van scheduled for Tuesday!"

"Van?" I echo, the textbook slipping from my grasp. It falls on my toe, probably shattering the bone, but I've got bigger problems right now.

"You know, for moving. So you'll have to get cracking with the packing this weekend!"


	15. Chapter 14

_Um, so. This has been a really long time coming, huh? I'm so, so sorry. Thanks to everyone for your lovely reviews and encouragement – it really has helped me get the words out when they've been tough to extract and when I'm certain I'm incapable of writing so much as a decent sentence about a cat sitting on a mat. Thanks, too, for sticking with me, even though I've been so slow!_

* * *

><p>I can't get hold of Kyle. I can't get hold of Ike. I can't even get in touch with his parents. I've tried going to his house; I've battered both the front and back doors. I've even climbed the tree in their backyard and hammered on Kyle's bedroom window. I lost count of the texts and emails I sent. The only way left to contact him may well be to hire a fucking plane and write it across the sky, so I've been googling the hell out of how to get one at short notice for under a hundred bucks – all I've got in my bank account. It doesn't look like it's going to be happening.<p>

The timing is awful. Kyle's still going to be mad at me from what happened earlier. If anything, he'll be pleased that I'm getting out of his beautiful curly hair, leaving him and Craig to get back together in peace. Which I'm sure Craig will ensure, somehow, even though Kyle is far too awesome to be chained down to someone like him.

If I leave without getting in touch with Kyle, he'll end up an accountant or some shit, locked into a boring job with no outlet for all his amazing talents. And not like a NASA accountant, who gets to figure out how much can be spent on spaceships. An accountant for the stationary cupboard of a glue manufacturer. I can't let that happen.

Mom and Dad take offence to my searches, ordering me to go to my room and pack. They both seem damn irritable for people whose latest stupid dream is coming true, and they just shout when I say I'm worried about the Broflovskis. Apparently I can't let my stupid ties hold the family down in a stupid way and I'm stupid for wrecking this for them. I liked it better when they were disappearing every weekend to go have adventure with Kyle's parents.

I throw my stuff into the boxes that my parents shoved into my room whilst I was out, letting everything just fall in haphazardly. It's just stuff, and annoying stuff at that. Why do I have all this junk? It's so not important, none of it. I just want Kyle. Who still won't answer his damn phone, his IMs, nothing.

I sneak out and drive around to his house again. Not one of the windows is lit, despite the hour, and the curtains aren't even drawn. What could be so important all four of them would flee the house?

I go home and wrack my brains for some way to win Kyle around, fast, but all I can think of is how hopeless everything suddenly is and how impossible it'll be to even win back his friendship in the time I've got remaining.

* * *

><p>"Partyin', partyin', yeah!" Butters sings, prancing around my living room and serenading his completely virgin Coke. He's responsible for the monstrosity currently ebbing away at everyone's nerves, despite people repeatedly pointing out that today is not Friday, goddammit, so can they pretty fucking please have a respite from this damn song?<p>

Kenny tells me that this is the only party since he could walk that he hasn't spent hitting on girls. He's sat next to me on our couch, an arm around my shoulders, slurring that he's really going to miss me. I'm going to miss Kenny, too. He's been damn cool. I find myself wrapping my arms around him and bawling that I don't want to leave him, but I'm detached even from that.

I hurt. I fucking hurt like I've never hurt before. I texted Kyle as soon as my parents announced that they were leaving the house for one last night out with the Broflovskis, begging him to come to my leaving party. I didn't get a response. He doesn't give a shit about me.

I want to blurt out to Kenny how I'm feeling, just break down and confess all, but he looks so happy to just sit, drink and talk shit. I don't want his last memories of me to be tainted by me being a fucking pussy. I let him continue regaling me with stories of South Park. I think he's trying to make the town sound shitty, cheer me up about getting away, but every time Kyle crops up in one it's like another shot in the heart.

"And then - Kyle," Kenny says. I nod, trying to smile. I do want to hear about Kyle, even though every mention wounds me a little more. I want to know everything about him.

"Kyle what?"

"No, Kyle just walked in," says Kenny, pointing behind me. I'm off the sofa before he's finished the sentence, scanning the crowd, hoping and praying and bargaining with any listening deity for it to be true. It's not a joke. There he is. Kyle. Our eyes lock, he grabs my wrist and guides me away from everyone. He takes me to my room, closing the door behind us.

"You came," I say, stupidly, because I'm just too happy and shocked to think of anything less redundant. "Shit, I thought – I thought you hated me-"

"No," Kyle whispers, stepping close to me. He puts his hands on my arms and leans against me. "I don't hate you, Stan."

"We're cool?" He chuckles, ducking his gaze.

"Actually, we're hot. Rather, I'm hot for you."

"Uh, really?" I ask, since all the blood has flooded from my head to my pants. I've probably fallen asleep on Kenny's shoulder and this is all an incredible dream, but I don't care. I don't want to wake up until this is over, even if I eventually wake to wet pants and everyone laughing at me.

"Yeah," Kyle whispers, looking back up at me. Jesus, his eyelashes are so long and so pretty. "So I figured – you know, since you'll be leaving, and I might not have another shot-"

"Yeah?"

"You need me to spell it out?" He laughs, nervously. "I want to ride your cock, dude."

Oh, fuck yeah. I'm so excited and stunned by my good fortune to even worry much about the fact that this'll be my first time going all the way. I'll just have to blow him away, figuratively and literally speaking, with some amazing foreplay so he might not mind a substandard main course. Hell, maybe over the my last few days we can even work on that.

I pull him to the bed, on to my lap, and grind my hips against his ass. He moans and leans closer, resting his chin on my shoulder. That delicious, coconut scented hair tickles my face again. I twist to bite at Kyle's ear lobe before deciding I want more. I cradle his face in a hand and turn it to face mine. He jerks back before I can kiss him.

"You tease," I murmur, leaning forward to try and snatch a kiss. He pulls further away, his hands holding my shoulders back.

"I can't," he mutters, avoiding my gaze.

"Huh?"

"I can't kiss you again," he whispers.

"I'm that bad?" I ask, dismayed. I was always pretty confident about my kissing technique, but all the rave reviews of the past are immediately declared void by this new revelation. Who cares about other people liking my kisses if Kyle doesn't like them?

"It's not that," he sighs, slumping against me and burying his face in my chest. "Shit, it's not that at all."

I hug him tightly, confusion and concern teaming up to destroy my boner. "Then what's up?" Not my cock, any more, that's for damn sure.

"You'll be pissing off soon. I don't want to get too emotionally attached, you know?"

"I don't want to!" I protest. "And wouldn't having my cock in your ass make you, uh, emotionally attached?"

"I dunno," he mumbles. "It was dumb." He looks up at me, his eyes shining with tears. "I'm going to miss you, dude."

"I'll miss you too," I say, stroking his hair. "I'll call, email, text, send you carrier pigeons, but it'll still hurt like hell. You're amazing."

"Can we just hang out?" he asks, ducking his head. "Just...us?"

"That'd be awesome." I mean it. Sure, it'd have been awesome to fuck Kyle, but I couldn't get through it not being able to kiss him, feeling detached all the time. He's too important for that.

We settle down, our bodies huddled close, to watch dumb videos on Youtube. We show each other our favourite cute animals, the most atrocious home videos, the weirdest song covers. There's giggling outside my door and a bunch of condoms are shoved under the door.

"Very fucking funny, Kenny," Kyle says. There's an unidentifiable crash and a familiar scream. We don't bother to move.

"Oh my God," I sigh. "They killed Kenny. Again."

"Those bastards," Kyle says, pulling my arm around his shoulders. "Anyway, you're going to love this one."

* * *

><p>The fateful day's arrived. The sun has risen innocently, just like it was any other day. We packed everything into the moving van yesterday with the Broflovski's help. There was a lot of crying and drinking. I'm reluctant to go downstairs in case I get tricked into helping them clean up – and because I've got a nice, warm Kyle to snuggle up to here. He brought two sleeping bags over for us, since my bedding's been packed, but we only used one. Nothing more risqué than my boner poking his clothed ass happened all night, sadly. He rolls over and wraps his arms around me, his eyes sleepy.<p>

"Don't go," he moans, fluttering those long lashes. A tiny tear creeps from the corner of one of his eyes, leaving a damp mark. As if I would if I had a choice.

"How about you sneak in a suitcase and come with me?"

"I'd rather not risk asphyxiation or heat stroke."

"Aw, don't you like me?" I tease, stroking away the wetness from his face.

"I fucking adore you and you know it, douche."

We crawl out of the sleeping bag with difficulty, our limbs entwining as if they can't bear to be apart, and pick up the few items that remain in the room. We sneak down the stairs, trying to avoid the fierce cleaning that's happening around us, and dash out to the car. We pile Kyle's stuff in his car and my things into Dad's. I slump on Kyle's car and hug it.

"I'm going to miss this," I groan.

"Dude, you've hardly ever been in it."

"Exactly. All the missed opportunities. We have to go do some crazy stuff in it when I come to visit."

Kyle smirks and curls himself around my back. "I'd love to do crazy stuff with you in this car. And everywhere else."

"Seducing me won't stop me leaving. Remember?"

"You sure?" he teases, nibbling my earlobe. I groan, knowing this simple act has probably given me an irreversible case of blue balls.

"Dude, don't get me horny before a zillion hour car ride. Not cool."

"So don't go on the car ride. Let's go for a ride in my car. Innuendo fucking intended."

I'm seriously tempted by this proposition, but my parents choose this moment to come outside. Kyle leaps away from me, his face adorably flushed. Since my parents and his are bawling their eyes out, they fail to notice that we were moments away from tearing each other's clothes off. Kyle's mom comes over and squeezes me so tightly I worry that my bones might pop out, but she releases me and I find that, though woozy, I am otherwise intact.

"Take care, Stan," she says, wiping her eyes. "And keep in touch with my bubbé. You're welcome at our house whenever."

This makes my Dad cry. Soon, Mom is joining in and hugging Kyle's dad, who is quickly joined by Kyle's mom. Kyle nudges me, points at his car and mouths something that looks like 'ride'...and something else. It was probably hot and awesome. I pick him up and smother him in a spine-snapping hug as I squeeze my eyelids shut, trying to block out the tears.

"I'm so glad I met you," I whisper into his ear.

My parents usher me into the car. Kyle's parents sniffle and wipe their eyes whilst Kyle winks at me. Dad tries to start the car, but it fails. Kyle grins. I'm slightly suspicious and utterly in love. Dad gets out and lifts the hood of the car.

"Oh, it's not working. Guess we won't be able to go." Kyle's grin widens. "I'll just ring the car servicing people and see if they can fix it at some point."

"That's such a shame," Kyle's mom coos. "Why don't you grab a coffee with us whilst you wait for the mechanic?"

"That sounds lovely," Mom says, getting out of the car. I free myself from the vehicle and run to Kyle, who grabs my wrist and drags me over to his car.

"You did this?" I whisper into his ear as he unlocks the car. He tries to shrug nonchalantly as he holds the door open for me, but the grin peeking at the corner of his lips confirms my suspicions. "God, you're amazing."

"I try," he says, leaning on the top of the door as I get inside. I don't know where we're going to go and nor do I care. Our parents are too busy discussing where to go for a final drink together to notice what we're doing.

Kyle slams his door shut and reverses away from my house. Although his car is pretty old, the inside is absolutely pristine. I don't know how he manages it – all I need to do is walk across my bedroom floor and it gets covered with bits, so how does he keep such a compact space neat? He flicks his CD player on and skips a number of songs before settling onto a familiar and very appropriate tune – that one from Phoenix Wright which plays to let you know you're crushing the truth out of a witness. We grin at each other and share a high five.

"When did you even manage to do that?" I ask.

"Last night. When Ike was informing everyone about the many fascinating elements of Roman sewage systems."

"Ike was in on it?"

"No, he's just a nerd. I knew he'd end up monopolising everyone's attention with something at some point in the evening." Kyle coughs. "So. Uh. What do you want to do?"

"Make out with you until I get prised away to Vegas."

His brows wrinkles as his face falls. "I don't think that's a good idea, Stan."

"What? We could totally make the long distance thing work and then go off to college together – sure, I'll need to work my ass off to get into the same place as you, but I'd do it."

"I don't think I could do it," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Okay," I manage, trying to maintain a calm air as my heart aches. It was a stupid suggestion, since Kyle's smart and pretty enough to have whoever he wants, whenever he wants – and let's face it, he's a teenage boy. He'd probably rather have some hot guy boytoy or two to fool around before college with rather than get bogged down in a serious relationship. "That's cool, too. What do you want to do?"

"I don't know," he says. We're aimlessly driving along the South Park streets. Tiny flecks of snow are falling around us, gathering in the corners of the windshield. My phone rings, startling us both. It's my dad.

"What?" I ask, feeling too sullen to feign friendliness.

"You need to get back here," he whines, sounding almost as deflated as I feel. "The stupid mechanic turned up straight away and fixed it in about two seconds."

"I would, but Kyle and I are pretty far out of town now," I lie. "It'll probably take us an hour to get back. Maybe two."

"Stan," he sighs, "Kyle's car just drove past the coffee shop. Now get back home."

"Fine," I snap. I throw my phone back into my backpack before slumping back in my seat, my arms folded across my chest. "I've got to go back."

"I heard. Sorry I didn't do a good job of fucking up your car."

"Not your fault," I grumble, glaring out at the snow. It's all white and innocent until it kills someone. It never comes when it's wanted, like when you could use a day off school, but ruins everything you actually want to happen. It's so South Park. "Stupid competent mechanic. What's he doing working in here? I was expecting him to, like, blow it up or plant magic beans in it."

"Not everything in South Park sucks, Stan," Kyle says, unusually harshly.

"Come on, you're always saying how crap it is and how dumb everyone here is."

"Then I guess it's a good job you're leaving us dumb hicks!" He grits his teeth as we brake at the lights. The red glow from the light makes him almost look like he's burning with anger.

"I don't mean it like that-"

"Then what the fuck do you mean?"

"I mean – of all the things to happen, I'd expect an average guy in South Park to completely fuck up a job. Because that's what most people here are like. Remember how we got that coffee from the local Harbucks and there was sand in it? How the hell does that even happen around here?"

"Guess I'm just another average South Park guy," Kyle says, shoving his foot back on the gas suddenly. "Since I fucked up fucking up the car in the first place."

"You're twisting things!"

"Hope you make lots of friends in Vegas," Kyle spits, scowling at me for a second before turning back to the road. "Lots of non-fuck-up friends."

"You're not a fuck-up!"

"I'm a ticking time-bomb of South Park and Jersey, Stan," Kyle says, grinning in a way that makes me shiver – and I'm not sure whether I'm more turned on or scared.

"Jersey? What does Jersey have to do with anything?" I ask, but Kyle's running his hands deftly through his hair and glancing at the rear view mirror. He's too busy with his hair to notice the gentle curve of the road. "Kyle? You know...driving? You're supposed to be doing it." An approaching car's headlights blind me as we almost collide. Kyle jerks the wheel at the last second and we spin off the road. He slams on the brakes.

I'm hyperventilating, curled into the foetal position, flashes of my life flicking through my mind. The most fucked up part is that most of the memories are of South Park. The click of Kyle releasing his seat belt fills the car. The second, identical click, confuses me. Am I hallucinating now?

I'm hauled over to the driver's seat, into Kyle's lap, but he barely looks like Kyle any more. His thoughtful face is far more focused and harder in some way. I slowly realise, my brain trying hard to reject the fact, that he was styling his hair whilst driving. That's what was so important that he nearly killed us. Making his hair into some sort of rows. I gape at him.

His mouth is on mine without warning. He fiercely penetrates my mouth with his tongue, ravishing everything it touches. I'm so fucking confused. All I can do is kiss him back, as hard as I can. Part of me still worries about what's going on, but the rest of me is too busy grinding my ass against Kyle's crotch to give a fuck. Kyle moves his lips to my ears, distracting me from all else by slipping his hand under my shirt.

"I'm going to fuck you, Stan," he growls. I just moan and grind harder against his cock. "You ever been topped?"

"No," I whimper, his hand on my belt buckle. I don't resist. "Never."

"I fucking thought so."

I lean in to kiss him again, but he blocks me with a hand. "No. I'm in charge."

"Okay," I say, swallowing my disappointment by remembering that I'll be seeing him naked soon. Naked Kyle. My last chance. "Uh. Do you have lube?"

"Like you've never done it without before," he says, squeezing my nipple hard.

"I haven't."

"I meant giving it to someone else."

"I haven't. With or without lube."

He seems to transform before my eyes. His face softens and he glances, wide-eyed, at my location, his hands, and our position, then back to me. He yanks his hands back, holds them up for a second, then catches sight of himself in the mirror and starts messing up his hair again.

"I'm so sorry, Stan," he says, avoiding my gaze. "I get – it's a hereditary condition."

"You have a hereditary condition which makes you hit on people?"

"I've never hit on anyone in this state before!" he squeaks. "Oh, man, I'm so sorry-"

My cock wilts as realisation hits that I still won't be getting Kyle naked. It's just South Park fucking with me again.

"Not South Park, Jersey," Kyle says. Shit, I didn't mean to say that aloud. "Mom's from there. We both – we go weird, sometimes."

"Oh. Right." I crawl off Kyle's lap back into the passenger seat. "What usually happens?"

"I punch things. And insult them."

"I got lucky, then."

"You're seriously a virgin?" Kyle asks, finally looking at me. His incredulity's making me uncomfortable.

"I've done stuff," I reply, defensively. "Everything except...you know, shoving my cock into someone."

"Or having someone shove their cock into you?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

"How what?" I snap. My balls are aching so bad I'm almost tempted to punch them or cut them off completely. I just want rid of the pain.

"How are you a virgin?"

"I just haven't shoved my cock in someone's ass. Or the other way around. It's surprisingly easy."

"But you're totally hot!" Kyle says, almost pleading. I can't face his incredulity any more.

"Not that hot," I mutter. "Or at all."

"Don't be a dumbass." He pauses, frowning. "But you were going to do it with me. Two times."

"So?"

"So why would you waste your virginity on me?"

I gape at Kyle again, struck dumb by the ridiculous question. His beautiful face is serious and still, but his hands are busy – his fingers lacing and re-lacing in a blur of activity.

"Dude," I finally manage. "You would so not be a waste. You'd be, like, having lobster as a first meal. You'd ruin me for everything else I ever ate, if I was stupid enough to ever eat anything else."

"Is lobster that good?" Kyle asks, pouting thoughtfully.

"I have no idea," I admit, taking his frantic hands and encasing them in my own. They become still. "But you would be even better. You'd be, like, five star lobster served by...some fancy chef guy. A real chef, with one of those weird hats." Kyle giggles. "Coupled with the most expensive and delicious wine ever. The kind that goes perfectly with lobster."

"Are you the wine in this analogy?"

"Shit, no. I'm not that great. No, you're the wine."

"And the lobster?"

"Kyle, you're the lobster and whatever they serve with lobster-"

"Garlic butter."

"That sounds awesome. Anyway, I'm just the lucky glutton who gets to enjoy it all and then doesn't want anything else ever again. Just the best lobster for the rest of his life."

"You sure you've never gotten laid? You're really good at being seductive."

"You're the only person lucky enough to be compared to lobster, trust me."

"I do." Kyle leans on my shoulder. "Sorry I got pissed at you."

"It's cool."

"But you know lobster isn't kosher, right?"

"Crap. I forgot." I tap my nose, trying to think of a fancy enough alternative. "You can be steak, maybe? But not cheese steak, real damn steak. Rump steak. Medium rare." I glance nervously at him. "Is that kosher? Or does the blood when it's still rare make it...not kosher?"

"If it's been prepared by a kosher butcher, it's fine." He grins. "Do I come with peppercorn sauce?"

"Is that delicious?"

"Extremely. I'll have to make it for you sometime."

"I'd rather have you." My phone rings again. Groaning, I pull it out and answer irritably. "Yeah?"

"Where are you?" Dad demands.

"Still on the way."

"You'd better not be eloping with Kyle! We expect you both here in a few minutes."

Now there's an idea.


	16. Chapter 15

"We can't elope," Kyle tells me as I hang up, before I can say anything. "Do I really need to list the problems with that?"

"You can make ten thousand bucks in five minutes but we can't elope?" I ask, indignantly.

"We're minors. We need to finish high school. We have no money, nowhere to live, nothing to wear."

"I don't want to wear anything! I want to run away with you and screw like rabbits!"

"How are you a virgin?"

"Dammit, Kyle, because – because no-one else is you!"

"I'm aware of that, but I'm not sure how it relates."

"You're the only one I've wanted. Jesus, it's so crazy, but as soon as I saw you – I fell, hard. And then you turned out to be amazing and perfect and you're the only person who I've felt like this for, ever."

"I think I know what you mean." I slump forward.

"You mean with Craig?"

"What? No. Hell no. I meant with you, dumbass."

"Really?" I say, but it comes out like a squeal. God, I'm such a fucking fool.

"Yeah. I couldn't stop thinking about you. We just seemed to click so perfectly."

I can't find any words, so I just beam like an idiot. Until I remember the whole being sent far away from Kyle thing and groan. "God, this is so fucked up. Fate's totally fucking with us, dude."

"Looks like it. We'll just have to show fate who's boss."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think we should date long distance – at least, not yet," he adds, hastily. "I just have a bit of difficulty getting my head around the idea that you seriously like me."

"Dude, I tried to hire a plane to write messages to you in the sky when you weren't answering your phone and stuff. I seriously like you."

"Aw, really?" he asks, flashing a grin at me. I nod sheepishly. "Sorry about that. I was busy trying to keep you in South Park. But you've got to understand. You're the archetypical popular, cute jock and I'm the epitome of nerdiness and not-cute-ness."

"I think you got us mixed up, Mr Obscenely Hot Basketball Captain."

"Stan, I'm utterly certain that you're the only one who thinks I'm hot and I'm fairly certain that you should consider an eye exam. But we're digressing from my point."

"That you don't realise how adorable you are?"

"That, for whatever reason – probably because you're way out of my league, but let's not argue that now – I don't feel like I can be in a long distance relationship with you."

"But – no!" I protest. "Just – no!"

"Convincing though your arguments are, I just don't have high enough self-esteem to have a long distance relationship with someone as awesome and attractive as you. I'd get jealous and irrational, dude."

"But you're awesomer and attractiver!"

Kyle winces. "Those aren't words, Stan."

"See!" I plead. "You're way better than me!"

"No, I'm an anal retentive jerk who likes to protect the English language – but Stan, that's how I feel. I'm scared that if we dated, I'd wreck everything between us because I'm so insecure."

"What if I got your name tattooed on my ass?" I ask, more to cheer him up than anything else. He looks so forlorn and fragile. "Would that prove how serious I am about you?"

"Depends what font you used," he jokes back, smiling a little. "I wouldn't talk to you ever again if you used Comic Sans."

"No way, baby. You're Helvetica all the way." He laughs. "So you won't ever want to date me?"

"Dude! Isn't it painfully obvious that I want to?"

"I mean, feel able to?"

"Maybe...with time?" His gaze flicks from the road, to me, and back again. "I'm really sorry. I just don't want to wreck what we do have."

"That's cool."

"But don't feel like you've got to stop dating 'cause of me," he says, although his voice tells a different story.

"Like hell I'm going to date anyone else," I scoff. "I'd be all, 'That's nice, but can you get more pissed off at me?' and 'Can you be about one hundred and ten percent smarter?'"

"And if they complied?"

"I'd still ask them to be more like you. And they'd never get close enough." A thought hits me like a sledgehammer. "What about you? What about Craig McDoucheyface?"

"What about him?"

"Are you going to get back with him?"

"Hell no." He smiles, content. "I've tasted my perfect steak."

* * *

><p>"There you are," Mom says as Kyle and I exit his car. "Come on, Stanley, we need to get going."<p>

"Can't I just live with Shelly?" I groan, unwilling to move too far from Kyle. Mom and Dad stare at me.

"She'll kill you," says Dad.

"That's fine. As long as I can stay here."

"People die when they're killed, Stan," Kyle quotes, making me love him a little bit more.

"Stanley, there isn't room in her new apartment," Mom says, her speech clipped and formal. "Please get in the car."

"I need to say goodbye," Kyle says, the words stumbling into each other. He jerks his head away from my parents. "It'll just be a few seconds."

"All right," says Mom, grudgingly. I follow Kyle behind his car. Something's off – he's looking nervous and takes care not to stand too close to me, edging away as I come closer.

"You might have some difficulties with the moving process," he says, his voice quiet.

"Like what?"

"Like the moving van not actually moving your stuff to Vegas."

"What did you do?"

"Ugh, it's really dumb. I can fix it."

"Kyle." I lift his chin with a finger and smile at him. He flinches.

"I researched the moving company, found out what GPS systems they used, bought one and replaced the software with a seemingly identical program that will just bring them back here."

"Jesus," I breathe.

"I thought that your car would take longer to fix, so the moving van would return before you set off and your parents would see it as, like, a sign that they were meant to stay here." He chuckles, but it comes out as a faint wheeze. "I even rigged it to play angelic choir music when it returned."

"God, you're devious."

"I know." He ducks his head again. "Sorry."

"Don't apologise! It's just more proof of how amazing and smart you are." I pull him into a hug. "And how impossible it'll be for me to get into the same college as you. God, I'm going to miss you so much."

"I'm going to miss you too," he replies, clinging to me. "But you have to go to the same college as me. You have to, dude."

"I think the only way I could get in would be to get a job as a janitor there."

We pull apart. I trudge over to the car, never taking my eyes off Kyle's. The car door slams between us like an impenetrable barrier. The car sets off, taking me out of South Park. I wave until Kyle's no more than a blurry dot in the distance – but my vision had been blurry for a while by that point, despite my frantic swiping at my face. My cheeks are hot and raw already, but the tears no signs of stopping. I'm such a soppy wuss.

I reach for my phone to send him a message, but it bleeps as I pick it up. Kyle.

_Miss you already. Don't you dare forget about me._

I pound the tiny plastic rectangle as quickly as I can to get a reply out.

_Never. I'll be back soon to visit. I promise._

But soon isn't soon enough. I connect to the internet and start checking out flight prices between Vegas and South Park. The prices are pretty steep, especially considering how often I'd like to come back, but I can get a job or two.

* * *

><p>The screech of a police siren jerks me from my sleep. Squinting out of the car, I see signs proudly proclaiming that we're now entering Utah. There's a Mormon church only a few yards behind it. It's weird seeing a church with a full car park. I guess the sign was telling the truth – this could only happen in Utah.<p>

The siren grows louder. I pull out my iPod to try blocking out the noise, but it's no use. It's like the car wants our attention – despite the fact that Dad's driving at the speed limit for once and the car's totally road legal. I peer out of the rear window to look at the car, which seems to be tailing us.

My head smashes against Mom's headrest as the car brakes suddenly. I can hear Dad's swearing in spite of the music and the sirens – two now, as there's a police car pulled in front of us. It's got to be the cause for the abrupt halt, but why we're being targeted by the police is still a mystery. Dad winds down his window as an officer approaches from the first car. I pause my music, curious.

"Randy Marsh?" the officer asks, leaning an arm on the car's roof.

"What's it to you, pig?" Dad asks. Mom inhales sharply.

"It's not safe for you to leave the state. We have intelligence that you need to stay in Colorado."

Mom looks accusingly at me. I jab both my index fingers at Dad, grimacing. This is all news to me, but if I'm honest, not entirely unexpected or unpleasant news. That is, as long as Dad accepts it quietly and doesn't cause a scene.

"What intelligence? More like out-telligence! I can go where I want! This is America, right? I'm an American citizen and I want to go out of Colorado!"

So, of course, he begins to cause a scene. The officer, surprisingly, just listens patiently and doesn't whip out his taser. A second officer heads out of the other car.

"This the Marshes?" he asks the first cop, who nods. "We've got to get them to the station."

"Orders were to just keep them in the state," the first cop, who I'll call Hairy Arms, because that's about the only distinguishing feature I can make out from here. Hairy Arms is still lounging against the car roof, evidently not liking second cop – who I'll refer to as Fat Ass, for similar reasons. It's impolite, but so is leaning your fat ass against someone's window.

"My orders were to temporarily detain them. I believe mine take precedence."

"And why do you think that?" Hairy Arms asks.

"Is this America or not?" Dad asks, still busy ranting. Mom taps him on the shoulder and whispers into his ear. He nods at her and the car lurches into action again.

"Jesus Christ!" I yell, staring at the open mouthed officers who are knocked to the ground by our escape. "You two are aware how illegal that is, right?"

"It was very suspicious, Stanley!" Mom retorts, fluffing her hair. "Besides, I didn't want them finding the cannabis plant in the boot."

"The what?" I yell.

"It was a gift from Mrs McCormick!" she says. "Besides, it might be useful for making friends in Vegas."

"Nice thinking, Sharon," Dad says, then blows her a kiss. She catches it, her cheeks pink.

"I thought so. Smooth getaway, by the way. But do you know what they wanted us for?"

"Not a clue. Stan?"

"After that stunt, they'll probably come after us for reckless driving and impeding the law!"

"Jesus Christ, Stan. 'Impeding'?" Dad echoes, derisively. "Not even Gerald uses words like that in normal conversation, and he's a lawyer."

"Yeah, well, Kyle does, and he's going to be a mega lawyer one day!" That's not true, but now I have visions of him pointing in court and yelling objection a lot. For some reason, the Stan in my vision gets the less cool role of psychic in a low cut top and mini skirt. The cheerleader costume must have really fucked with my head.

"I don't think that's an actual lawyer rank, Stan," Mom says. And where was that annoying logic and reason when I needed it?

"We can ask a lawyer ourselves soon. When we're in _prison_."

"We could ask a lawyer right now," Mom says, triumphantly. She pulls out her tiny clamshell phone, the banana charm I got her three years ago still dangling limply from one end. "Hi, Gerald? We've got a question."

"You're on the phone to Kyle's dad?" I ask.

"Say hi from me!" Dad says.

"Yeah, is there such a thing as a mega lawyer? No?"

"Ask about the fact that we're now wanted criminals!" I scream.

"Fine," Mom says, sighing theatrically. "Oh, this really weird thing happened. A couple of cop cars pulled us over. One said we needed to stay in the state, the other said that we had to go to the station-"

I zone out and stare out the window. The sky is an unspoilt blue, free of any clouds. It's a vast departure from the permanently white and grey skies of South Park which always threatened snow. A black helicopter is the only speck spoiling the view.

"Yeah, they didn't seem to be able to agree on what we'd done. Isn't that weird? Gerald? Gerald, are you okay?"

I watch the helicopter, giving up on trying to talk sense into my parents. It hasn't worked for the past seventeen years; I should just give up and give in to the inevitable. Lie back and let the insanity wash over me. But what they don't seem to realise – what I only just realise – is that they're throwing away their chance to live the craziness they've always been drawn to. They were ostracised back in Portland for Dad's excessive drinking, for Mom's flitting from fad to fad. They were divided from the community by their own aura of ridiculousness, but in South Park they were accepted for it.

More importantly – for me, at least – was the fact that I was cushioned from it all for the first time. I could saunter past Dad wearing nothing but a frying pan in the morning if I knew I'd be seeing Kyle soon. Mom's disturbing exercise equipment didn't seem so creepy when Kyle just chuckled at it. Oh, God. Kyle. I need Kyle.

It looks like the helicopter's going our way. It's growing closer, following our path. If I knew anything about Morse code I could ask it to whisk me away, take me back to South Park. SOS – Save Our Sanity. My sanity, anyway. My parents said bye to theirs years ago.

"Gerald, we couldn't have just gone with them. We're carrying contraband. Yes, I'm being serious!"

I wind down my window. The helicopter's close enough for me to hear its wings buzzing as they spin. This is the closest I've been to one. Kyle, as ever, beats me in this aspect – he roughly estimates that he's ridden in ten in the past decade. He even flew one of them.

There's something written on the helicopter. I squint. Three letters... One looks like an F...

"Because we didn't plan to get pulled over, that's why!"

Oh, no. There's a B. There's an F and a B on the side of the helicopter. Shit, shit, shit.

"Mom? Dad?"

"We're busy, Stan," says Dad.

"Yeah, but-"

"Busy!"

"We're being followed!" Mom and Dad turn in their seats. I brace myself for impact, since Dad's completely ignoring the road now, and stab blindly at my window. "There's a helicopter tailing us!"

"There's nothing there, Stanley," Mom tuts. "Yeah, sorry, Gerald, Stanley's a bit shaken by it all."

I press my nose to the window. My breath fogs up the window, but I can still tell that they're right. It's gone. I'm cracking up.

"Fuck!" Dad screams. The brakes scream and my forehead cracks against the window as the car spins round and round, completely leaving the road. I curl up reflexively, but we finally come to a safe stop far from the road. The reason for Dad's panic is the same as the reason why I couldn't see the helicopter from my window: it'd parked on the road in front of the car.

This never would have happened if we'd stayed in South Park. Or maybe it would have done, but I'd have had Kyle. He'd have snapped his fingers and concocted a plan. I can see all three white letters emblazened on the helicopter now: an F, an I and a B. Wait, what? I scan them over and over, but they stay put in that order. Now that's not right.

Two women, clad in matte black suits and Jackie O style black sunglasses, emerge. One has a round bob cropped close to her head like a helmet, whereas her parter's let her long curly blonde hair fall down to her waist. They're both wearing navy berets that clash horrendously with just about everything else. Mom's gabbling on the phone to Gerald at a rate that I can't decipher, whilst Dad is just gaping and whining.

"...I thought this was America," he says. "Can't I even drive down a damn American highway?"

The blonde raps hard on Dad's window. He winds the window down, still stammering about America.

"FIB," she purrs. "You 'ave to come with us by order of ze President."

She is also, apparently, British. I am so homesick for South Park right now.

* * *

><p>Dad's attempt to flee the FIB was thwarted by them shooting the car's tires. They bundled us into their helicopter, ignoring Dad's whining about whether this country was still America, and flew us...I'm not sure. We're in some office, somewhere, with nondescript white walls and absolutely no non-essential furnishings. The essential furnishings are all made of rusted metal. It's like someone wanted to recreate the headquarters of the Men in Black on a budget. We're still being guarded by the two women who found us, but they're busying themselves with tiny black gadgets whilst drinking glasses of red wine.<p>

"So...FIB?" I ask the woman with cropped hair. "Are you guys even remotely legit?"

"Of course," she purrs, swatting me with a baguette. Yes, as in a crusty, long, English loaf. "We are a very special unit."

"Great, great," I say, brushing away the crumbs. "So, what does FIB stand for?"

"Frenchies in Black," she replies, without the slightest hint of a smile.

"Also Females in Black," her blonde partner adds. "Ze ex-President got a leetle confused."

"Right. Okay. What?"

"Zere was a President oo always got ze acronym FBI muddled up," says blondie, adjusting her beret. Mom's too busy poking her phone to try and rant to Kyle's mom about this latest injustice to pay attention, and Dad's similarly indisposed by rocking back and forth and whimpering about America. "Ee insisted zere was an FIB. So zey made one. But ee could not decide if ze F stood for Female or French. So 'ere we are."

"I need the toilet," I announce, standing up. "Which way is it?"

They point me in the direction. I heave up my bag and set off. I keep going along the corridors, one hand clasped to the right wall so I don't go around in circles, and hunt for the exit. The building is heavily understaffed; I don't pass a single soul on my walk. The door to my freedom is thankfully not locked or guarded. I step out into the night and survey my surroundings. We're on a highway. If I keep walking, I'll find a rest stop – so I'd better get going.

I keep trudging forward, my arms hugged around me for warmth. It doesn't stop me shivering. It gets to the stage where each step shoots sparks of pain into the soles of my feet, like my shoes have been worn down to paper thinness. I keep walking. I have to get back to Kyle, away from all this. Kyle will help me rescue my parents. Kyle will know what to do.

An obnoxious sign towering above me informs me that I'm only twenty miles from a McDonalds. I've never been more delighted to know that I'll be in one of their chains within a few hours. I contort my shaking fingers so that they're crossed in the hopes that they won't be closed when I arrive and that I won't be the only customer there. I need other people for my plan to work.

Every muscle in my body aches. The only reason I can keep my eyelids from uniting is that I need to see those golden arches. If I can get there, I can get to South Park. I need South Park. I need Kyle. I've tried to call him several times on this pilgrimage, but there's no signal. I wonder if he's worried, if his dad's told him about his call with my mom. I want to talk to him, to tell him all about this crazy night.

The cold air grates my throat with each breath I take. My legs seem to have seized up and refuse to bend at the knee. I check my phone again – still no signal. Maybe there'll be a phone at the McDonald's I can use – it's only fifteen miles away now.

* * *

><p>The McDonald's, perched on the edge of the highway, glows like a heavenly banquet hall. The smell of cooking fat wafts towards me and my stomach rumbles. I feel faint, I feel thirsty, I feel so relieved. I run the last few yards to the building, throw the door open and scan the room. I'm not alone, thankfully, and there are a few bikers sitting in a corner booth. I head towards the one eating a McFlurry ice cream in spite of the bitter cold outside. He's probably not the brightest bulb in the box. Not that I can talk. Not any more.<p>

"Hi," I say, collapsing into the chair opposite him. "You got a bike?" His incredulous raised eyebrow is confirmation enough, but he gives me the courtesy of a nod. "I need one. I can trade you my 3DS, all my cash..." I pause and pull out my wallet. I've got sixty bucks. "Which is sixty dollars right now, but if there's a cash machine-"

"There isn't," his bearded friend snorts, shaking his head at me. "Jesus, kid, what're you even doing here?"

"Trying to get back to my girl," I tell him. In my head, Kyle pouts at being called a girl, but I don't want to take any chances. "My parents were trying to ship me off to a school out of state so we couldn't be together, but fuck that shit. I need her."

"What's she like?" the first biker asks, excavating the last few scraps of ice cream from his cup.

"God," I breathe, seizing the opportunity to boast about Kyle. "She's the hottest thing ever. Got an ass I'd walk sixty miles for – least, I think that's how far it's been. And she's smart and funny and can kick my ass at any game 'cept Guitar Hero."

"Sixty miles?" the bearded biker asks, choking on his coffee. "Get out."

I wordlessly haul my feet onto the table. Even I'm shocked my how much damage my shoes have taken. The dangling shoelaces have become crusted with mud, the soles are peeling away and I've worn through the front of one of them somehow. McFlurry biker pokes my shoe and I yelp as he jabs sore skin. I twist my feet towards me and grimace at the state of the soles, which are now riddled with holes.

"What games you got for the 3DS?" he asks me.


End file.
